Three Weeks in Hell
by I Feel Possessed
Summary: At the age of fifteen, G. Callen was arrested for robbing a storage locker and sent to Southgate Juvenile Detention Centre. He spent three weeks there, describing it as hell - before he escaped. This is the story of his three weeks of hell. Warning for language and suggestive abuse.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The anger was strong. The rage he felt at life itself coursed through his veins and made his heart pound. He barely acknowledged the sheer force of self loathing he felt; it was a daily occurrence and now part of who he was. And that was _the_ question. Who the hell was he? All he had was a name. No scrap that, he thought. All he had was half a name – Callen. And that was only a surname. The types of kids that were called by their last name were usually those that were despised, whether that was despised as bullies, or despised as the kids no one wanted to know and just labelled as 'trouble'. Callen usually fell into the second category but there were times when he had to be the bully if only to survive. Survival. Hell, that was a whole new topic. He had no idea how he did it, and some days he had no idea why he even wanted to survive, but it seemed to be an inherent skill. He had survived fifteen years of hell. OK, some months were better than others, but now he had reached his fifteenth year, things had reached a crescendo.

He picked fights knowing he would lose and he regularly skipped school. He had shoplifted in plain sight of a store detective, hoping to get caught and be suitably punished, but lady luck had for once been on his side and he'd easily evaded the rent-a-cop. He deliberately wound up the last three foster families he's been placed with, earning himself the belt, being locked in his room and even locked out of the house. Not that it really mattered as he'd spent more and more days and nights roaming the streets than in the so-called safety of a home where adults apparently wanted to help him.

'Out of control', 'a challenge' and 'a hopeless case' were the three phrases the social workers had freely spoken about in his presence for the last five or six years. Callen had lost count exactly when those phrases came to embody who he was. Maybe it had started earlier. He'd been ten when he'd hit his foster father with the broom handle that had been used to beat him. That fighting instinct had stemmed from witnessing a previous foster father beating his foster brother to death in front of him. Life had not been kind to Callen, but it was the violent thoughts and memories he allowed to surface that fed his mood, as he listened to the inane and condescending babble of his latest social worker.

"I'm just trying to understand what you're thinking, Callen,"

Callen pushed back a mop of dark blonde hair from his eyes. His head remained low but he looked up at his latest case worker. She was making all the right noises and Callen studied her slowly. She was older than his last one – at least thirty. He guessed she was kind of pretty. Her face was oval shaped with dark brown hair that bounced around her shoulders when she moved her head. Her brown eyes were magnified by her thick rimmed glasses and as her hand poised over her pad, she had a tendency to fiddle with her engagement ring. Callen wondered whether it was a clue that she was unhappy in her personal life.

In response to her question, Callen just shrugged his shoulders. He didn't give a crap that Miss Williams wanted to get inside his head and understand him.

"Callen, I'm here to help you. If you can tell me what happened in your last placement then I can investigate the matter further."

Callen again glanced up at Miss Williams and quickly looked away as he inadvertently made eye contact.

"I only have the information provided to me by your foster father, and it isn't very complimentary about you. I want to hear your side of the story. I don't believe there is any such thing as a bad child. Children are vulnerable and impressionable and it is up to us adults to help shape you in to the people you become. If certain individuals abuse that position of trust, then they have no right to be involved in the lives of young people and children, particularly those that are at risk."

Miss Williams observed her young charge. She had read Callen's file months ago and her first impression had been the same as many of her co-workers, some of which had the so-called pleasure of placing him in the past. But seeing him now, after he had spent over a month on the streets and been arrested for burglary, all she could see was a child that was broken; a child that was so full of rage and hatred – of himself and of the world – that he was spiralling in to a life from which he would very soon struggle to escape. Lorna Williams had been his care manager for the last four months and had placed him with the Stoneman's. They were a family that had proved solid in the past. Sure there had been the usual gripes that came from them preferring the older children. Older children meant teenagers. And teenagers in foster care fell in to two categories. Those that recently had the misfortune to be taken from their parents, either for their own safety or through a family tragedy, or those children that had been in the social welfare system from a young age and for various reasons, had never been adopted. Either way, the children were extremely vulnerable, and being at such a critical age were frequently a challenge.

"I'd like to understand why you ran away,"

Callen finally raised his head; his clear blue eyes were as hard as ice as he stared at Miss Williams. Instead of answering he again shrugged his shoulders and remained silent. Nothing good ever came of him speaking the truth about adults who abused their position – and abused him. When he was younger he had spoken up, only to be labelled a liar. If he wasn't to be believed when he told the truth, he would either lie or remain quiet. The path he chose was dependent on who asked the questions. His gut told him that Miss Williams had good intentions but past experience had long since told him that good intentions meant nothing.

"Callen," Miss Williams smiled at the teenager, trying to get him to understand that she was on his side. "You ran away from your foster family. You disappeared for six weeks before you were caught breaking into a storage facility. You've been sentenced to six months here at Southgate Juvenile Detention Centre. This is your first day and I'm here to help you. If you talk to me I may be able to help reduce your sentence. There has to be extenuating circumstances. Do you know what that means?"

Callen once again looked down at his feet. He wasn't really sure but it sounded like his social worker was trying to help by saying it wasn't his fault. Once again, Callen shrugged. "Dunno,"

Lorna Williams gave a small and quiet sigh. How terrible was it when her success criteria was measured against getting a troubled child to utter a single word.

"It means that a situation outside of your control affected your actions and makes them seem worse than they really are. Something caused you to run away, to live rough and to commit a crime. Did you break into the storage locker for shelter? Were you looking for something to steal so you could eat?" Lorna paused to observe Callen and with a sinking feeling realised that whatever small victory she had achieved had just as quickly disappeared.

Callen sat with his head down, shoulders rounded; his body language screaming at her to leave him alone. His left arm was protectively curled around his right side and she wondered whether Callen had been injured when he'd been caught. She had read his arrest record. 'Resisting arrest' and 'reasonable force' were choice words that had been recorded by the officers concerned. There was no mention of medical assistance being given to Callen, and Lorna narrowed her eyes as she asked, "Did you get hurt when you were arrested?"

Callen looked up with a half smile that never made it past his lips and mumbled. "Not really." Realising his arm was giving him away; he moved his hands to his lap and forced himself not to tap his fingers together. There was no chance he was going to admit that the arresting patrol men had punched him several times to stop him from struggling and slapped his face before deliberately tightened the cuffs until his wrists chafed. Fourteen hours later he'd been before a judge, then transported from the police station to Southgate Juvenile Detention Centre.

Southgate was an old jail house built in early 1900s and a former men's prison for those found guilty of minor crimes. In the late 1970s, the existing adult prisoners had been transferred so the site could be modified to house the criminal elements within the local youth community. The high brick walls that circled the front of the prison and the imposing steel gates had been demolished and extra land had been acquired to the rear, allowing the youths more outside space. Internally there had been little refurbishment; the teenage inmates were housed in cells rather than the more modern dorm rooms that were starting to appear in the newly built youth detention centres. The prison had received bad press since re-opening as the facilities were basic; the cleanliness and hygiene of the entire complex was questionable. There had also been rumours of abuse, most of which had been perpetuated by former youth prisoners. None of the allegations had yet been substantiated, however most of the investigations had been undertaken by the directors of the facility itself.

They were all rumours that Callen had heard, however so far his first day had been uneventful. Upon admission he'd been roughly searched and his personal items had been removed. In reality all it meant was his army green bedroll, printed with CALLEN. G, had been confiscated, along with a tattered rucksack containing a few clothes and some out of date and stolen biscuits. In return Callen was provided with a standard issue t-shirt, sweater, trousers and underwear, given basic personal hygiene items including de-lousing shampoo, and pushed into the shower block. Once clean, he had been ushered into the Intake Office and questioned about his name, address and history. Callen had given short, sullen answers where he could and attempted to evade the more serious questions relating to self harm, suicidal thoughts and questions about drugs and alcohol use.

As he sat opposite Lorna Williams, his mind wandered to the final stage of his processing. He'd been told in no uncertain terms how the centre worked, the strict timetables for classes, the amount of time he'd be alone in his cell and the constantly supervised free time. Poor behaviour was punishable through isolation. Southgate was a 'hands-on' facility which meant force would be used by the Correction Officers if rules weren't followed. He would be treated as a prisoner, not a teenager and he was reminded that this was not a 'cushy children's home'.

"Callen are you listening?" The voice broke through his thoughts, causing Callen to jump. "Callen, my concern for you extends to the police too. If excessive force was used on a vulnerable child then –"

Callen gave a short sharp laugh at Miss Williams' words. He did not consider himself vulnerable. He was more than capable of taking care of himself; it was other people he had problems with. And he certainly did not consider that he was a child. He had grown up a long time ago out of necessity and part of that growing up was the realisation that all adults were liars and no one could be trusted. Promises were only made to be broken. Just like the rules.

"Callen, you are fifteen and still a child in the eyes of the social welfare state and the law," she softened her voice, adding. "And however tough you consider yourself, you are vulnerable. The only support system you have is the State and I am trying to help you, but I need you to help yourself by talking to me."

Silence ensued yet again. Lorna Williams shook her head. She so desperately wanted to make a break through with Callen and with the other four children currently in Southgate that fell under the jurisdiction of Southern Los Angeles Social Services Office. "Look, if you don't want to talk to me then you have a weekly appointment with the psychologist which will be set up in the next few days, as well as group therapy sessions. You need to talk to someone. It really will help."

Lorna saw Callen fiddling with his fingers and correctly interpreted the action as nervous energy and restlessness. She realised he was very uncomfortable in her company and it was a common reaction from the numerous teenagers she encountered. Occasionally she was able to connect and start to make a difference to a young life but unfortunately those wins were few and far between. Callen was just like the majority of children currently serving a sentence in any of the thousands of juvenile detention centres across America. Realistically and statistically he had no hope of making anything of his life. Once released, the likelihood was that he would reoffend and serve more time behind bars. It was a circle that would continue until he reached adulthood, when time behind bars meant adult prisons, with hardened career criminals who preyed on young men to either abuse them further, or to welcome them into their family and cement them in to a life of crime.

"I think we're finished here," Lorna said. "Just think about what I've said...please."

Without looking up, Callen stood and walked to the door. A Correction Officer had been waiting outside and Callen deliberately walked into him, causing the officer to roughly push Callen away and turn him in the direction of the recreation area. Progress was slow as they negotiated two sets of secured doors and the Correction Officer had to unlock and relock each one whilst Callen waited. Several minutes later, they reached the recreation area which consisted of a large common room for activities. The time was 3:30pm and classes were finished for the day. Callen had been advised he had an hour of free time before dinner and so he glanced around, wondering what to do. There was a single pool table at the far end of the room which was closely monitored by two guards. He was intrigued as to why there was a pool table in a prison as cues and the balls themselves were easily classed as lethal weapons. Tables and chairs were fixed to the floor in the middle section and at the opposite end easy chairs circled a large fat TV which was playing Bugs Bunny cartoons.

He wandered to the end of the room and grabbed a spare pool cue. "Play the winner?" he asked of the two older teens that were currently playing.

"Get lost," said the tall dark haired youth who was lining up his next shot.

"Bit difficult in here," Callen replied candidly.

"Yeah, well try loser," his opponent, a short fat Latino boy responded.

"Scared I'll beat you? Then you'll be the loser..." Callen decided to take his frustration out on the two teenagers by antagonising them. He really had no intention of making friends in this place.

"I ain't scared of nothin'" the dark haired teen retorted.

"Prove it," Callen said. "Bet you I can win by doubling the eight ball in the top right pocket."

"He's a hustler, Matt," warned the Latino.

"Yeah Matt," Callen mimicked. "You too scared of losing to find out?"

Matt glanced at Callen before leaning over the pool table and making a successful pot. Satisfied that he'd left the cue ball lined up for his next shot, Matt placed the butt of the cue on the floor and leaned on it. "What you betting?"

"Packet of smokes," Callen lowered his voice in case the guard was listening.

"Yeah?" Matt's question left little doubt in Callen's mind that he didn't believe him. "And where did you get 'em?"

"The guard that led me here...picked 'em out of his pocket," Callen spoke casually as though it were no big deal. He deliberately avoided sounding boastful until he understood how pecking order of the centre.

Matt stared at Callen and then at his Latino mate. Finally, Callen's response was met with a nod of approval.

"Deal," he nodded. "I win, I get the smokes."

"Done," Callen said.

The game took less than ten minutes to complete, with Callen deliberately missing shots until Matt had no choice but to pot balls. When Matt missed his second to last shot, Callen seized the chance to clear up, sinking each ball cleanly until he only had the black remaining.

"Eight ball, top right, doubled in,"

Matt moved towards Callen until he was standing directly in front of him and invading his personal space. He had a good four inches on Callen who refused to back away. The two locked eyes and Matt spoke, slowly and threateningly. "If you make me lose, I'm gonna take those cigarettes off you and make your life in here hell..."

Callen shrugged and stepped away. Leaning over the table he lined up the eight ball and played the winning shot. "Off the cushion and into top right pocket," he gloated with a smirk.

"You gonna let him get away with that?" Latino boy asked.

"'Course not, Jose." Matt replied.

"Best of three?" Callen asked sarcastically, well aware of the trouble he was causing.

"Give me the cigarettes," Both Matt and Jose stepped closer to Callen who was now slowly moving to the far end of the pool table.

Callen looked around for escape routes. There were about a half a dozen boys in the room, mostly watching TV and all disinterested in the happenings around the pool table. He glanced in the direction of the guards. One was observing their activities with a passive expression on his face, leaning against a wall. Callen again moved away from the boys, tapping his fingers on the table, hoping the officer would see he was the victim. Without warning, Jose snatched a ball from the table and smashed it down on Callen's left hand. Callen instinctively clutched his hand in pain just as Matt rushed around the side of the table and brought the pool stick down on Callen's shoulder. Breathing hard, Callen made a fist of his right hand and swiftly punched Matt's left side, causing the older teenager to gasp sharply and bend over. He quickly landed another hit to Matt's side. Kill or be killed, were the only thoughts running through his mind as he smashed his knee up in to Matt's face. Callen had no intention of losing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"That's enough," roared the officer who had finally moved from his relaxed position of observance. He grabbed hold of Callen and forcefully twisted his arms behind his back, pushing him to the floor. The second officer had now come to assist, quickly checking the other two teens were unhurt by the seemingly unprovoked attack. With an officer either side of him, Callen was lifted from the floor by his arms and dragged back through the hallway. He could hear the voices of the inmates cheering and jeering as he was led away. Each time one of the officers let go of him to unlock and open the secure doors, Callen struggled violently. When the first door was locked, one officer pinned Callen's arms behind his back while the other punched him in the face, splitting his lip and causing blood to trickle in to his mouth, warning him there was more to come if he didn't calm down. With Callen recovering from the first blow, the officer unlocked the next door but Callen continued to struggle, attempting to kick the guard in front of him. Once they had passed through and the door locked behind them, Callen was hit again, this time a sharp jab to stomach. Callen instinctively doubled over in pain but the guard pulled him upright and held him tightly. Eventually they reached his cell and the two officers literally threw Callen in and walked out.

Callen landed on his hands and knees. Turning his head to one side, he spat out the mouthful of blood he'd been trying not to swallow. Breathing rapidly he spoke just loudly enough for the officers to hear.

"Ugly bastards, too scared to take me on one at a time," Callen lay on the floor for a split second, his body tense as he anticipated the response that he knew would follow.

"You've got a real mouth on you Callen," one of the officers said, placing a heavy boot in the square of his back and pinning him to the concrete floor. Within seconds both officers had withdrawn their batons and began to hit Callen on both sides of his body.

"Is that all you got?" he asked the guards through gritted teeth, daring them to inflict as much pain and damage as possible.

Callen lay prone on the floor, tensing himself for every hit. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut to try and block out the pain. Minutes later, after a final kick to his legs, the officers retreated and locked his cell door.

"Five days isolation, you dirty, worthless piece of crap. You'll see no one, speak to no one and the only person you'll see is me bringing you three meals a day, if I remember. And I'll make sure they're _real_ tasty. We'll move you to solitary when you've had time to calm down. That's on the other side of the prison so no one can hear you cry like a baby..."

Callen remained face down and this time stayed silent. He kept his eyes shut as he tried to block out the pain. He'd had worse beatings but he had no idea how he'd cope with the isolation. The meals were almost guaranteed to be spat in. He briefly wondered how long he could go without eating and vaguely recalled that you could survive on water alone for days on end. Satisfied his tormenters had finally moved away from his cell, Callen slowly rolled on to his side and brought his knees up to his chest. He wrapped his arms around his legs and remained in the foetal position until the pain began to subside and his limbs were numb.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Five days of isolation was a punishment worse than anything Callen could ever have imagined. He had been transferred from his cell to a smaller room that had no bars. The door was solid with a small window that was shuttered from the outside, allowing the guards to check on him without having to open the cell door or interact with him in any way. His bed was a basic built-in concrete block covered with a thin mattress, a base sheet, top sheet, small pillow and a blanket. In the corner was a metal toilet and hand basin. The detention centre was poorly heated, being an old building, and the floor of the cell was concrete and the walls whitewashed breeze blocks - there was no warmth at all. The lights were permanently on but dimmed during the night and Callen spent most of his first night huddled in the corner of the room, blanket wrapped around his body to make the most of what little warmth he could naturally generate. At one point he had moved the mattress to a corner of the room, but when the guards saw him, they entered the cell and hauled him to his feet, placing the mattress back on the bed. Callen was told that if he did that again, his isolation spell would increase by a further twenty four hours.

Boredom had kicked in as soon as Callen woke at dawn. There was nothing for him to do until the lights dimmed again at 21:00. No TV, books, cards, pens or paper. The external window at the rear of the cell was too small and high for him to look out. Instead his thoughts ran wild. He thought back to the intake interview when he was asked if he'd ever tried self harming. Callen almost smiled when he thought about how he had goaded the two officers who had thrown him in to his cell. Strictly speaking, he thought, it wasn't really self harm if you persuaded someone else to do it for you. He glanced at the plimsolls on his feet. They were slip on's in case prisoners decided to use the laces to hang themselves or to strangle each other. His thoughts quickly turned serious as he realised he was only into the first day of the five day stretch. He had already thoroughly explored his cell and there was nothing that could be used to inflict damage to either himself or anyone else. Callen had spent a good half hour by his reckoning, at the cell door, examining the lock and hinges for a way to escape. Even if he had something with which to pick the lock, there were still the many sets of secure hallway doors to negotiate, and the solitary confinement cells were located in a separate wing of the facility.

Callen refused to eat although he drank all the water he was given after carefully examining it. The bruises acquired from his beating were showing brightly on his torso, and his ribs were rather tender to the touch. His bruised left fingers were still painful to curl after the pool ball had been slammed on them. Hour after hour passed by so slowly that Callen started to think he was going mad; and he had already lost count of how many hours remained until the first twenty four expired.

With so much time on his hands, his mind wandered from subject to subject; the usual thoughts about who he was and why he'd been cast aside by his parents came tumbling through. It was their fault; he thought bitterly, that he'd had to grow up without anyone. As a young child, he frequently imagined what his parents were like. He used to daydream that his mother was a Disney Princess and his father a handsome Prince who had their only son stolen from him, just like the fairy stories that had been read to him when he was little. One day his father, heir to the throne, would come charging in and claim his long lost son. But by the time he had reached the age of seven, the fairytales faded and his thoughts on his parents started to vary from day to day, dependent on his mood and his growing understanding of the world. For a few weeks, he had envisioned his mom and dad as secret agents who had to give him up for his own safety. The story had taken form after he had received a toy spy ring from a Christmas present donation to his children's home. It had been a toy that had piqued his imagination until it had been deliberately broken beyond repair. Callen had very few possessions and the destruction of that particular toy had caused him to see red. He had repaid the boy in kind and wrecked his precious train set; actions that had led to a fight and both boys getting the cane. Just before he reached his teen years, Callen developed a much more realistic theory about who his parents were and why they hated him, a theory which stayed with him today. His mom was a druggie and a whore, his father a wife beater who was probably serving time somewhere or dead. They had just thrown him away, abandoned and left him for dead when he was five. No note, no nothing. As far as Callen was concerned his parents were to blame for the state of his entire life. If he ever met them he would rip them apart. That was something for which he wouldn't mind serving time, he thought angrily.

Callen's thoughts then turned full circle and he wondered if it was actually his fault. Maybe he was such a terrible child that he'd driven his parents to abandon him? He could not remember anything before the age of five, and even then they were fuzzy memories of an orphanage in Maine. Over the years he'd seen how very young children behaved and he thought that if he'd been even half as bad as them, that was the reason why his parents didn't want him. It had never crossed his mind that all the young children he had encountered were in orphanages, children's homes or foster care and were most likely so traumatised they knew no other way of behaving or expressing themselves.

For as long as he could remember, other children at school and in homes, foster parents, social workers and even the odd teacher had repeatedly told him that he wasn't wanted. Foster families couldn't even put up with him for more than a few weeks at a time and no one had ever come close to adopting him. The older he became, the hope of adoption had faded away and lived only in his dreams as a fantasy. Now he was lucky if anyone even wanted to foster him. The last good placement he had was two years ago. He'd been labelled as a challenging child. He played truant, got into fights and was frequently in trouble for being mouthy, awkward and generally breaking any rule he could.

Callen thought back to the Russian family who had surprisingly accepted him for who he was. He smiled as he recalled the fun few months and the sense of belonging the Rostoff's had shown him. The smile faded as he remembered the day Social Services had removed him from their home for some unknown reason. Callen furrowed his eyebrows, remembering how the family had argued and argued with his welfare officer that they wanted to foster Callen long term. He had been practically dragged in tears to the car, leaving the Rostoff's angry, confused and very disillusioned with their adopted country.

The surge of conflicting emotions rushed through him as thoughts of his past lives collided with each other. Standing up and pacing the cell, Callen started to recite some of the Russian words Alina, the four year old daughter of the Rostoff's, had taught him. He repeated the words over and over again, getting louder with every repetition and walking faster and faster around his cell. As he paced he counted the steps to cross his cell, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards over and over again. He then practised saying numbers in Russian until a guard came and threatened him to shut up and sit down. Unable to help himself, Callen shouted one final word in Russian, the highest number he could remember – which the guard took as a swear word – and Callen managed to earn himself a sixth day in isolation.

By the end of day three, hunger finally won out over the risk of eating spat in food. He'd eaten worse, but not by much. The food presented to him was cold, tasteless and had the texture of paper. Callen's clothes were grimy and his hair matted, and despite having a hand basin next to the toilet, he felt dirty and was pretty sure he stank badly. He may well have lived in the same clothes for weeks at a time on many occasions, but that had mostly been at his choice and usually when he ran away. Eventually, the lights dimmed a little to signify bed time and Callen curled up under the blanket. He realised now why none of the inmates were allowed laced up sneakers, especially when they were in isolation. He couldn't recall ever having felt so low and he had already experienced more low points in his fifteen years than most people experienced in a life time. Callen reluctantly admitted to himself that he may finally have learnt that giving smart-ass comments to those in positions of authority was not the wisest move, especially in a juvenile detention centre.

Bad memories permeated his dreams that night and continued through to his daytime thoughts. There was no escape from himself; nothing to take his mind off dwelling on the past. He thought about the foster families he had been placed with. Some were fine, many were indifferent but others were full of abuse, the type of abuse that was carefully hidden behind closed doors. Callen had either witnessed or had fallen victim to most types. Physical abuse inflicted to the body meant the bruises were rarely seen whereas punches to the face were clearly visible. If social services came calling, the latter was always blamed on the child fighting at school or with foster brothers. The older Callen became, the more he fought back which sometimes resulted in even more physical damage to himself. He thought about his last foster family; the Stoneman's. They had three foster children – four including Callen – and all were teenagers from thirteen to seventeen, a mixture of boys and girls. It was a brave and heady mix of teens and hormones and Callen had been there for a week before it all started to go wrong.

Usually it was the foster parents or even friends that had caused problems for Callen but this time it was mainly two of his foster siblings – Freya Chambers and Simon Fielder. Both were seventeen and had been living with the Stoneman's for years. Unknown to Callen, the two had formed a casual relationship, which basically meant they used each other for sex. So when Freya had started to flirt with the home's newest foster child, Simon had become jealous and started to threaten Callen with violence. Several fights had ensued which Mr Stoneman had broken up - one had even resulted in the garden hose being turned on the two boys, leaving each drenched but thoroughly cooled off. Freya had continued to enjoy her position of power and delighted in the play-off she witnessed between her two suitors. But despite the overtly sexual overtones she made towards Callen, she had still favoured Simon.

As the second week of his placement progressed, the tension rose further between the three youths which was mirrored in the attitude and behaviour of Mr Stoneman towards Callen. Either the foster father had no idea about the relationship between the eldest foster siblings or he was deliberately turning a blind eye. Whichever way, he constantly sided with Simon and treated Callen harshly for disrupting the status quo. He imposed a seven pm curfew on Callen, when even Layla, the thirteen year old girl in his care was allowed out until eight. Mrs Stoneman had prohibited Callen from isolating himself in his room, forcing him to sit with the rest of the foster family until bedtime at ten. They had enrolled him in the local high school but were already receiving reports that he was failing to show up to class. And when he did, he was sullen, rude and rarely put pen to paper. The result was Mrs Stoneman had driven him to school and watched him to the door, and collected him after. His homework was scrutinised each night but when there was not an immediate improvement in his school work, general behaviour or even attendance, the Stoneman's began to show an even greater lack of understanding and impatience.

Simon told him in no uncertain words that they were better off before he came to live with them and Callen had actually complained to his social worker Miss Williams, that he didn't like it there. The response was to give the placement a chance. The third week had continued in much the same way. Callen craved the freedom to stay out late and away from the confines of the home. The Stoneman's were stifling him; the rules and constant micromanagement of his schooling caused his behaviour to deteriorate and even more arguments to erupt between him and his foster parents.

Freya and Simon continued to stir up trouble for him, and started to plant cigarettes and money stolen from Mrs Stoneman's purse in Callen's room, before leaving subtle clues that led the Stoneman's to search his belongings, resulting in further punishments. Callen could see in Mr Stoneman's eyes that he wanted to raise his fist to him, as no punishment seemed to have any effect. It was lucky for Callen that he managed to find the planted marijuana before the Stoneman's did, and he took full advantage by deliberately staying out that night, sharing several joints with another teen in a park, before casually strolling in for breakfast the next day. The Stoneman's threatened to put a lock on his door so there would be no repeat, but were loathe to admit defeat and send Callen back to Social Services. Their other foster children had been with them for years and they had wanted to continue their good work and extend their family with another teen. However the Stoneman's had acquired an out of control teenager and had expected to see immediate results and gratitude from Callen, but in reality, they had no idea how to actually help the boy.

Callen soon realised if he didn't like the Stoneman's and if no one was listening to him, he would just have to leave. He'd run away on plenty of occasions, but it was always risky. There was a chance the police could pick him up and throw him in a cell, legally detaining him before releasing him back to either social services or his foster family. Callen had even known some kids that had been sent to juvie for persistently running away. In the past, he had sometimes contacted his social worker to make arrangements to return but only if it were to a different family. On other occasions Callen had been picked up by the police, and he was convinced he was now on their run-aways watch list. The Stoneman's were by no means the worst foster family he had ever stayed with, but he'd had enough and and so had run. He knew a couple of kids in Venice who lived in an empty house off one of the back alleys - the type that tourists avoided at all costs - and he had holed up there for a while. One of their older 'acquaintances' had hatched an audacious plan to break in and rob a series of storage warehouses, a plan that Callen had embraced, but it hindsight, hadn't actually worked out too well for him.

Callen started thinking about his present situation. It wasn't the first time he'd been arrested and charged with a crime, but this time he had been convicted and sentenced. His treatment at Southgate so far had only confirmed the rumours that circulated the children's homes and the streets. His only choice was to suck it up and serve his time without any further incident. Callen realised that was unlikely to happen; he had already picked a fight with two other teens and been thrown in to isolation. Even if the other boys ignored him when he was placed back in to normal prison life, he was certain his every movement would be scrutinised by the officers. Each time he even looked like breaking the rules, they would be on him. It was true, he thought bitterly, he was trouble. He had no one to visit him and no one to appeal his sentence or fight on his behalf. He just had to survive the next six months and hope the sentence would not be extended for bad behaviour.

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Thanks to all the follows, favourites and wonderful reviews and messages. It's great to know my efforts are enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Having learnt his lesson the hard way, the remaining few days of isolation passed in silence and every single minute felt like an eternity. Day six finally arrived and the correction officer unlocked the door to Callen's isolation cell and escorted him to the showers at 06:30. Clean clothes, toiletries and a towel were provided and ten minutes later he was taken back to the his cell in the main wing. At precisely 07:15, he was allowed breakfast in the dining area. Callen's first interaction with other youths after a week's isolation was uneventful. He sat at a table on his own and kept his head down, focusing on eating his food and drinking his juice. No one spoke to him and he spoke to no one. After breakfast, he and all the other boys returned to their cells. Classes started at 08:30 and Callen was taken to another room just past the recreation area. The classroom contained about twenty boys ranging in age from fourteen to sixteen. His social worker Miss Williams had advised during his first day that classes were made up of children of similar ages and abilities. Callen sat at the only free desk at the front of the room and slouched back, stretching out his legs. In the past three years he had barely attended school. He was moved so frequently that some social workers had given up registering him in local schools, although many foster families insisted on sending him. However Callen also had a tendency to play truant. School bored him; he had no friends, was always stared at as the 'new kid', and then bullied when he was discovered to be a ward of the state, living in foster care or children's homes. He had also been excluded several times for fighting and word soon got around the local schools as to who were the trouble-makers.

The male class teacher at Southgate was a middle aged man, wearing jeans and a checked shirt. He looked like he would rather be anywhere else than teaching a group of delinquents at a detention centre; an attitude that was mirrored by the facial expressions and body language of each boy in the room. Mr Jessop also exerted an air of authority that was instantly recognised by the class. He was a traditionalist, which in reality meant he would freely use a cane, ruler or a shoe to mete out punishments. A glare from him ensured that silence rapidly ensued, and Mr Jessop handed out packets to each boy, which that morning consisted of Maths papers. English would follow in the afternoon. Callen lazily opened the papers and glanced around him. Seeing most of the class settling down to work, Callen did the same, taking his time and doodling. Maths was a subject he could manage better in his head than on paper so he took to guessing how many minutes had passed, versus the time that had elapsed when he looked at the classroom clock.

A general assumption of Southgate was that the inmates were not as bright as children in the outside population. It was expected that they had learning difficulties or that they had missed so much school through poor behaviour they were perpetually playing catch up. The result was that Southgate had an apathetic attitude towards education; and that was reflected in their standards and their teaching, which consisted of the teacher making sure there was silence in class. There was little interaction or tutoring and therefore no real learning. After two hours, the boys were allowed a fifteen minute break before returning for another hour session that led up to lunch. After lunch there was a further hour and a half class. At 2:30pm, classes finished for the day and the youths were either taken to weekly group or individual therapy sessions or allowed supervised free time, indoors or outside.

That afternoon, Callen decided that outside may be better for his health than hanging around the recreation area after the events of his first day, and he sauntered through the door and leaned against the exterior wall of the building, breathing in the fresh air. He turned his face towards the sky and thought it was rather fitting that grey clouds covered the usual blue California skies; even the weather was depressed in this part of town.

The exercise yard was a reasonable size with a basket ball court marked out, rigid frames cemented into the concrete provided stability for the baskets and about a dozen boys were playing. Past the court was an expanse of grass, edged by tall mesh fences that were topped with razor wire. If the cell bars and constant presence of correction officers weren't enough to remind him he was a prisoner, the razor wire topped it off. Callen sighed and pushed himself off the wall, preparing to take a walk around the perimeter.

"Hey, you that kid who punched Matty B?"

A boy Callen recognised from class was asking the question and he shrugged in response. If he said yes, then maybe this kid would give him a kicking, and Callen had had enough fighting for the moment. The thought of more time in isolation made him want to scream. If he said no, then he would lose any possibility he might have to develop his reputation.

"I'm Joe. I hope you are as Matty B thinks he runs this hole. He's caused a lot of shit for a lot of people and everyone's scared of him," Joe stopped talking to look at Callen, waiting for a response.

Callen sized Joe up. He looked about the same age as he was, but had short brown hair, was taller and carried more weight. Mind you, Callen thought, most people were taller than him and since he had practically starved himself for three days and before that had lived rough, most people were also heavier.

"Yeah, that was me. Callen," Callen warily introduced himself. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers and started walking. He wasn't sure that he needed a friend in this place. Staying on his own was probably safest, but Joe seemed to have other ideas.

"You're already a legend in this place," Joe said, keeping pace with Callen. "Your first day, you beat the top dog and get sent to solitary. That's the stuff legends are made of – and no one even knew your name...classic."

Callen refrained from reacting to Joe's last few words. Jesus, he thought, he didn't even know his own name. "It wasn't really how I thought my first day would go," he admitted.

"Trouble is, Matty B and his gang will be out for revenge, so you need to watch your back,"

"But he got me sent to isolation for a week," Callen had already gathered that neither Matty B or Jose had been written up or punished in any way for their attack on him.

"Doesn't matter. You made Matty B look stupid...I hope you worked out in solitary?"

"What?"

"Worked out, y'know, press ups, sit ups...what else did you do all day?"

Callen shrugged. Exercise had never crossed his mind. Instead he had dwelled on the past, a past that was consuming him. "If he wants a fight he knows where to find me. It's not like I'm going anywhere and he doesn't scare me."

"What you in for?" Joe asked, studying Callen. He looked like all the other kids in Southgate; tough, untrusting and edgy. Sure there was the odd kid that looked like he didn't belong, but once they were all dressed in the same uniform, there was little to distinguish them from one another.

Callen stopped walking and turned to face Joe. "Robbery, mainly," he said, refraining from adding that the judge had also sneaked in charges of resisting arrest, running away from social services and persistent truancy. He also had a list of prior offences that had accumulated over the years. His police record had finally caught up with him and the judge had referred to the previous leniency of Callen's past crimes, as a crime in itself.

"You?"

"Attacking my step dad," Joe looked at Callen. "I had to stop him from getting to my sister," Joe explained. He looked off in to the distance but not before Callen caught a glimpse of a tear forming in his brown eyes.

"Did you?" Callen asked.

"Yeah, but my mom backed him and had me arrested. My sister ran away. I don't know where she is now." Joe bowed his head and scuffed his plimsolls along the ground, kicking tiny pieces of gravel into the air.

Callen felt a pang of sympathy for Joe and was reminded that he wasn't the only teenager to have a rough time of life. At least, he thought wryly, having no parents meant he wasn't stuck with ones who were meant to love him but were only capable of abuse.

"When I got arrested I'd been living on the streets. You sort of go where all the other kids go, it's safer. Y'know, down Venice or Hollywood." Callen nodded his head to encourage Joe to start walking again. "Not many kids use their real name but maybe I met her. What's she like?"

Joe looked up and met Callen's eyes. "She's thirteen, long brown hair to here." Joe pointed to two inches beneath his shoulders. "She's your height and real skinny."

"That could be anyone," Callen said, causing Joe to slump his shoulders and slow almost to a stop. "What makes her stand out?"

"She has braces – train tracks top and bottom that makes her speak with a lisp. Her name's Lizzie."

"Nicknames?" Callen asked. He could not think of anyone matching the description Joe had just given him, but there were thousands of homeless children on the streets of Los Angeles. Most of them did not want to be found and many had no one to miss them.

"Not really," Joe said. "But she always liked the name Maddie. Madeleine's her middle name." Joe looked at Callen, his eyes full of hope.

"When I get out of here, I'll go looking for you," Callen said.

"How long did you get?"

"Six months, but I'll be out in a few weeks," Callen replied confidently.

"You appealing?" Joe asked in surprise. His first impression of Callen was that he came from a poor family and was just as guilty as the rest of them, and so reckoned he was stuck with the rest of them until he served his sentence.

"No," Callen said, glancing around him for anyone that might be in earshot. "This place sucks and I'm not staying here."

"Woah," Joe exclaimed. "You're going to escape? Last time someone tried that they were caught the same day and spent at least six months in isolation."

Callen ignored the warnings from Joe. It sounded like he was exaggerating. He had no escape plan yet but he hated it here. He hated the strict rules, the rigid structure, the school classes, the other kids and the officers. Underneath his quiet exterior he was still seething that he had been placed in isolation for throwing two punches, and physically abused too. He shuddered inwardly as he thought about what the punishment might be for a real fight.

"Maybe you're right," Callen lied to Joe. He was already regretting being so open with Joe but however much he valued his own company, he still secretly craved company and Joe seemed decent enough. "I'm still pissed about being thrown in isolation for so long."

"Some of the COs chuck you in there for no reason," Joe said, as though that explanation made Callen's legitimate punishment acceptable.

"Yeah? So who do I steer clear of?" Callen decided to use Joe to obtain information that may come in useful for in the event of an escape.

"Pollack – he's about ten foot and like a flag pole. He's nasty and he picks on certain kids. He'll be violent just coz he can get away with it. And Brown, he's just evil. He'll just stand there and watch and wait and then come charging in at the last minute to haul your ass off for a beating. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown 'tash - Brown. And then there's Wells. Rumour is he just likes boys so watch for your cell door opening in the middle of the night. Wells is quiet and a bit fat. The rest are OK I guess."

"Hhhmm," Callen reckoned it was Pollack and Brown who had dragged him to the cells the previous week, and Brown who had given him most of the beating. "Do they really watch everything we do?"

The two boys had stopped walking having reached the point where the imposing brick wall met the high mesh fence that gave them a tantalising view of freedom. Callen placed his hands on the fence and curled his fingers, gripping the metal. He gently shook the fence as he kicked at the ground absently, trying to draw information out of Joe.

"Nope. Well, just the ones I told you. The rest don't care. Sometimes at night you can hear them snoring or watching TV. Three months ago, they got drunk and watched porn. You can get away with loads; smoking, drugs, sex, gambling - anything unless it causes them a problem."

"But they don't like us fighting?" Callen said.

"Not unless they're starting it," Joe laughed. "If you get seriously hurt you might end up in hospital but they'd probably just leave you in pain to die on the floor. You were lucky."

"Yeah, real lucky," Callen narrowed his eyes, gazing at the single CO who stood observing the fifty or so youths that were outside. "Y'know, if we all rioted now, we could take over this place in minutes."

Joe stared at Callen. He couldn't tell if the new boy was being serious or just mocking him. He got the sense that Callen was not just street smart but also other smart, like he actually had a brain in his head. He also had a desperate glint in his eyes and that meant he could be dangerous to be around. Joe wanted to serve his sentence without trouble. He had a further five months to go and had no desire to lengthen his stay.

"Look Callen, don't go making trouble. The COs will have marked you now. And don't forget Matty B." Joe glanced around him. "Matty hangs round with Jose, Mark and Will. They're all sixteen, seventeen. Jose was with Matty fighting you. Mark is a big black kid and Will is white trailer trash, real poor, real stupid; tattoos everywhere. He smokes and deals drugs. They run this place and I'm pretty sure they've got some deal with Pollack."

Joe walked back a few paces and Callen observed a change in his body language. He was literally backing away from him, disassociating himself from a trouble-maker. Callen was used to it. Joe had given him insightful information on who really ran Southgate and who to look out for, but Callen was sure that he could befriend Joe properly if he needed.

He stared at the grass and ran his fingers through his hair before looking up at Joe; his clear blue eyes full of pain and hurt. To keep Joe onside, Callen thought he would play on Joe's compassionate nature, but in reality, he allowed a glimpse of his real emotions to show. "Sorry," he shrugged. "I'm just...y'know..."

Joe nodded in understanding and smiled. "Sure...Look I gotta go." He patted Callen on the arm and moved away. "Maybe catch ya later..."

Callen watched Joe walk back towards the basketball court and breathed a sigh of relief. He still had no escape plan but he had at least found someone he could talk to in this hell hole. Even his first day out of isolation had been a challenge. Uneventful maybe, but the long class sessions and periods of free time with nothing much to do, did not to inspire him to believe his stay at Southgate would pass quickly. At least he had been spared the dreaded therapy sessions, and he hoped he would be as lucky tomorrow.

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Many thanks as always to the continuing reviews, comments, follows and favourites...


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The next day started badly with a scuffle in the shower block. Callen was not involved but he witnessed another teenager be ridiculed for the scars he had on his back and shoulders, the verbal bullying turning physical as the kid was then punched in the stomach. Only a few boys were involved, the rest, Callen included, stood and watched the humiliation unfold. It took ten minutes for a guard to realise something was happening and even then the result was the boys were dispersed; the teenager concerned was left crying at the side of the showers.

Classes continued much in the same vein, only this time Callen was the victim. Results of the previous day's math work were read out and the two boys with the lowest marks were asked to stand up at the front of the classroom. Callen defiantly stood and moved slowly to the front from the desk he had managed to secure at the back, next to Joe. The other boy, Jake Southerby, was already physically shaking.

"For those that care, this is G. Callen and of course Jake Southerby. Take a close look at these two as this is as much attention as they are every likely to get for their school work." Mr Jessop spoke slowly and condescendingly. The remainder of the class stared at the two boys; a couple started to snigger until Mr Jessop glared at them. "By now you all know Southerby. He's thick. Not just a bit slow, not just extremely stupid – as you all must be to be here– but he's thick. Once again he has failed to get more than 25% on yesterday's math paper and this is the same test he has now taken five times in the last three weeks. I'm sure we'll be seeing him again up here this afternoon when I've reviewed the English results."

By this point Jake Southerby had turned bright red and his eyes were glazed, clearly trying to hold in the tears whilst not focusing on Mr Jessop's words or the looks of amusement from the other boys, several of whom were now openly laughing at him.

"Enough," roared Mr Jessop and the class instantly fell silent. "It looks like we finally have a companion for Southerby. Callen, first name G as in the letter, not as in 'oh gee whizz'," Mr Jessop raised his eyebrows, indicating the boys were allowed to snigger, nudge each other and point to Callen. After allowing them their moment of joviality, he continued. "Now how many people have a letter for a first name? No one. So that makes him _special_ already. And what makes him even more _special_ is that he knew none of the answers. Apart from being able to write his name, well half his name," Mr Jessop paused to bark out a short laugh. "It seems that Callen here cannot actually write. He did not answer a single question. Maybe that means that he can't even read the questions. Well that would certainly make him thicker than Southerby."

Callen stood silent at the front of the class while Mr Jessop ripped in to him. He stared straight ahead at the back wall, anger building inside of him at Jessop's condescending words and how he encouraged the other boys to laugh at him. He felt Joe staring at him and he lowered his gaze to meet Joe's eyes. Joe shook his head slightly to warn Callen to stay quiet and suck it up. Callen lifted his head a little. He tapped his foot slightly and tightened his jaw, determined not to speak out and make matters worse. He was not embarrassed like Jake and was no way near close to tears. It was the anger that he struggled to control; that and his mouth.

Within a minute, Callen had failed to exert any self-control and he snapped his head towards Mr Jessop and said icily. "I can read and write but the questions are so stupid even a ten year old could answer them." He realised his words made Jake look even worse but he had already established that Southgate was all about survival of the fittest.

Without uttering a word Mr Jessop took two strides towards Callen and slapped him on the back of the head, causing Callen to stumble forwards, instinctively placing his hands on the desk in front to steady himself.

"I've been warned about you, boy." Mr Jessop said. "Fighting on your first day and a week in solitary."

"It was six days," Callen corrected his teacher, this time earning himself a slap to his cheek. Callen resisted the urge to raise his hand to rub his face. His cheek smarted and he was pretty sure it had instantly turned red.

"It would appear that you _can_ count," Mr Jessop feigned amazement. "Well in that case you can re-do yesterday's maths in front of the class and without a pen or paper. Let's see if you can score higher than Southerby here."

Callen turned to face Mr Jessop, exhaling slowly as he tried to calm himself down. More time in isolation was not an option so he had to face whatever humiliation was coming his way. He watched Jessop pick up his empty math paper from the previous day, and walk through the desks to the back of the classroom. Jessop opened the first page and began speaking.

"You have a minute to answer each question, starting now. If an item you purchase has an original price of $150 and it's now $90, what percentage saving have you made?"

Callen held Mr Jessop's stare. His memory was pretty good and he could frequently recall information with great clarity, and he knew for a fact, that question was not amongst the first few pages.

"I'd make 100% saving," Callen said defiantly. "I wouldn't buy it in the first place."

"No he'd steal it," a voice from the centre of the room piped up, brave now that Mr Jessop was standing behind him. Muted laughter and muttered insults were again directed at Callen.

"Well?" Mr Jessop asked.

"Well what?"

"Would you steal it to make 100% saving?

"Yeah," Callen admitted, narrowing his eyes and visually daring any member of the class to say they would act any differently. "Then sell it for 75% of the original price so I'd make about $110."

"Interesting. What we have here is a self declared thief and quite possibly a con artist. Sounds like you should have been sent here years ago Callen. You might want to check your figures though as the answer to your own question is that you'd make $112.5 profit."

Callen allowed himself a smug grin as Jessop realised that he now risked making himself look like the stupid one. He could also tell that whatever questions Jessop would proceed to make up, would now be extremely difficult to solve.

"Fractions; what is 2/9 + 2/3?"

Callen stayed silent. He hadn't a clue.

"Shall I give you an easier one? What do the angles in a triangle add up to?"

Callen shrugged and wondered why the hell anyone would want to know that anyway.

"I'll open that up to the class. Hands up if you know the answer, which is of course one hundred and eighty degrees." Mr Jessop waited expectantly. One by one the boys all placed their hands in the air as they realised that it really didn't matter whether they knew the answer or not, Jessop had just given it to them. "Well now, looks like you're the only idiot in the class. Let's try some more; what is the square root of eighty one? What is six squared? What is a prime number?"

The questions came thick and fast. Callen had no idea how basic these questions were but from the looks on the faces of the class, they all seemed to be glad that they had not been made an example of. Callen took the verbal punches and humiliation one after the other and realised that next time he would actually have to make an effort with his work. The previous day he had literally written only his name on all of the papers and so expected a repeat performance when Mr Jessop came to review the class's English work.

Lunch was a welcome reprieve from Mr Jessop, however the humiliation continued in the dining area. He was jostled in the queue, openly talked about and insulted by more boys as news of the class room antics spread. Callen gave back as good as he got, sneaking in punches when the COs weren't looking, and firing back the verbal abuse to several of the boys. When Callen finally had food on his plate, he sat down to eat his lunch with Joe, who gave him the lowdown on Jessop.

"He's nothing more than a bully," Joe warned Callen. "He just finds someone to pick on and then bullies them in front of the class, like with you."

Callen shook his head. "Great," he said sarcastically.

"But what's worse, he picks on the same kid for weeks and weeks until he gets bored. Then he finds his next victim. Looks like he's moving from Jake Southerby to you. He works out what your weak spot is and then picks away at it. I dunno how he does it..."

"He'll have access to all our records, police and school, social services. He probably knows more about us than the COs."

"Oh yeah, I never thought of that," Joe pointed with a fork full of food in Callen's direction as he realised that Callen was correct.

"Guess you're right, Joe," Callen said, stirring round of what he believed was mashed potato on his plate. "It's my turn now - I never wrote on my English paper either. I'm gonna be this afternoon's entertainment too."

Joe leaned forward across the table. "Callen, you just need to keep your mouth shut. Don't say nothin' and you won't piss him off more," he warned.

"Yeah, but he just talks shit and someone has to tell him that," Callen replied, wondering whether the food that might be mash potato was actually safe to eat.

"You're a dumb fuck, y'know?" Joe said, shaking his head. "You must really like getting in trouble."

"Nah," Callen replied with a smug grin. "I prefer getting outta trouble. I'm just gonna out think him and show him up as the thick bastard he is."

"But he's the teacher!" Joe couldn't work out how anyone could upstage a teacher and make them look stupid.

"And..?" Callen questioned.

"You're crazy too," Joe shook his head, smiling at Callen. For someone so serious and intense, Joe found that Callen was actually pretty amusing, in an odd kind of way. "Hey, why don't you have a first name? What was Jessop on about? I thought Callen was your first name."

Callen sighed. He was fed up with telling this story and he had the answer down to two sentences. "Last name Callen, first name starts with G and no one knows what it stands for as I've been in social care since I was five. I have no idea who my parents were."

"Wow," Joe leaned back in his seat and pushed the remains of his lunch to the side. "That's rough. What's on your birth certificate?"

Callen shrugged, "Don't have one."

Joe opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, thinking. A few seconds later he did speak. "If you don't have a birth certificate," he said slowly. "Then how do you know your last name is actually Callen? And how do you know when your birthday is?"

Callen put down his cutlery and stared at Joe. They were damned good questions, and ones to which he had no real answers. He believed his birth date was 9th March 1970 but he had no idea if that was correct. He was pretty sure he'd glimpsed a paper in his file that said he was found in Maine on 9th March 1975, so he'd reckoned social services had just used that date and deducted five years, once the doctors had confirmed his age. As for his name? His only real possession was an old army bedroll that he'd had when he was found. Printed on that bedroll was the name CALLEN G. It was the only name he had and he was not going to give anyone the satisfaction of taking that - or his bedroll - away from him.

Callen scraped his chair back from the table, and avoided making eye contact with Joe. "Going back to class..."

"Callen," Joe called out, watching Callen walk away. "I'm sorry." Joe mentally chastised himself. He knew Callen was having a tough time settling down at Southgate without him asking dumb questions. He got up and followed Callen. There were only a few minutes until class and a number of the other boys were also drifting towards the classrooms. He'd talk to Callen and apologise later, Joe thought. They were getting along OK, and Callen wasn't really talking to anyone else so he figured they would be friends again that afternoon.

The English class after lunch followed the exact same pattern of the morning. Callen sat at the front of the class just to spite Jessop - and Joe - whose usual seat was towards the back. This time he was the lone boy summoned up to be bullied. If nothing else, Callen thought, at least he had spared Jake Southerby additional humiliation that day. Random words were thrown at him for spelling and clarification of their meaning. Some he knew but most he guessed at phonetically, only to be ridiculed and cuffed around the ear, when he answered back with his smart-ass comments.

Finally the school day was over and Callen decided to try and enjoy his free time. The numerous teenagers split off in different directions and cliques, some returning to their cells voluntarily, some to the recreation area to watch children's television. About thirty five youths were outside where the California sun was still high in the sky. No dull grey clouds were pressing down on them today. A game of basketball started up and several groups of four or five boys moved towards the edge of the grass area, where the fence separated their imprisoned lives from the tantalising view of freedom. Callen observed these mini gangs with interest. Their bodies were positioned in such a way that their actions were hidden. He glanced back towards the building and saw only one CO - Pollack - sitting down on a bench. He was watching the basketball game with his legs stretched out in front of him, enjoying the sunshine. Looking back to the boys he saw wisps of smoke rising and realised they were smoking. Callen remembered he still had the pack of cigarettes he had lifted from a guard on his first day. They were safely stashed inside his mattress after he had ripped a small hole in the seam. They would serve as the usual currency, he was sure about that. He reckoned the same boys also had access to drugs, if they weren't already smoking joints by the fence. Callen wasn't that interested in smoking or drugs. Sure he experimented and seized opportunities when presented to him and the same went for alcohol. Sometimes it was good to indulge as it provided a temporary escape from the reality of how crap his life was but generally, he liked staying in control too much.

Avoiding the other kids, he wandered to the brick wall and sat down against it. His viewpoint encompassed the entire outdoor area. There was still only Pollack on guard and his eyes were now closed. Callen's thoughts went back to his conversation with Joe the previous day. If all the boys outside now rioted, they could escape within minutes, provided of course they could breach either the wall or the fence. Both were covered with razor wire which meant the wall was instantly discounted and the fence could not be climbed over. Therefore, Callen deduced, the only option for escape from the outside area was by cutting a hole in the fence. He thought about how he could incite a riot and sighed. He reckoned he had completely missed his opportunity to influence the other kids through his behaviour and experiences over the past week. He had managed to alienate himself from most of the boys through his first day and subsequent isolation, and then his earlier humiliation by Jessop. If he had been a class clown instead of a loner he thought, the boys would naturally have liked him. Instead, he once again was struggling to make friends and fit in – not that he really wanted to do either at Southgate. He wondered if it was too late to make a character change and pretend that G Callen was really a charismatic clown who enjoyed being the centre of attention amongst a large group of people. Nah, he thought, knowing that any plans for escape would be down to him and him alone.

Callen's thoughts then turned to Joe. He had caught sight of him five minutes earlier. He was playing basketball and had lifted a hand in greeting to Callen, who returned the acknowledgement with a nod of his head. Joe had shouted out an invitation for him to play, to which Callen had simply replied with "later". Despite his best intentions, he realised he was actually enjoying Joe's company - most of the time. Their chats were friendly and honest, and both boys had a tendency to speak their minds. Callen smiled a little as he observed Joe's antics on the basketball court. It looked like there could be some serious competition between them later on, when Callen had calmed down from the events of Jessop's English class.

Callen rested his head against the wall and lifted his face to the sky, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. This was his moment of sanctuary amidst a living nightmare, peace without interruption, peace without fear of violence, a few minutes of safety within his own mind. But it was a moment that was short lived. A shadow fell across him, causing him to open his eyes and look up; Jake Southerby stood in front of him. Jake stood in silence, his eyes flitting from the wall behind Callen to the fence and back again until he finally met Callen's eyes. Callen waited for Jake to speak.

"You alright?" Jake asked.

"Yeah," Callen replied. "Why?"

"Y'know, class today. It's not nice, I know."

Callen shrugged. It wasn't nice but generally he believed verbal assaults were much better than physical ones. Jake sat down next to Callen and drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them.

"It happens to me all the time. Not to no one else, just me. And now you." Jake ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair. Callen stole a glance in his direction and saw tears starting to glisten in his eyes, just like they had in the classroom. "I just wanted to say I know how you feel. You look real sad, sitting here on your own an'all." Jake paused before adding. "I don't have any friends here either."

Callen remained silent. He was sitting here alone because he wanted to. At the moment he didn't want any company, not after his experience in the classroom, but later he wanted to take Joe on at basketball. He wasn't socially incompetent, and he hoped he wasn't quite as sad and lonely as Jake was suggesting. He sure as hell didn't want Jake to befriend him out of pity.

"Can we be friends?" Jake asked cautiously, sounding like he was nine years old.

"Maybe," Callen said, noncommittally.

"Well maybe we could be more than just friends?" Jake continued to speak cautiously and laid a hand on Callen's thigh.

Callen froze. "I don't think so," he replied slowly, waiting for Jake to remove his hand.

Instead Jake squeezed Callen's thigh causing Callen to jump up. "Fuck off Jake, get away from me," he threatened. "I don't need a friend and I'm not gay."

Jake stood up and faced Callen. "Me neither," he said, not understanding why Callen was so angry.

"You like boys, so you're gay. Don't you fucking come near me ever again," Callen threatened in a low voice. He physically shoved Jake away from him, before turning his back and walking away.

"B..but that's normal," Jake's voice cracked as he called after Callen, watching him walk to the edge of the basketball court and willing him to turn round. "That's what my daddy said, that we're normal," he added to himself.

Callen closed his eyes briefly and sighed. He knew now that Jake was seriously messed up. Not because of their brief encounter but because it was clear he had been sexually abused and conditioned or groomed or brain washed, or whatever the hell it was his father had done to him.

Callen suddenly decided he needed that slice of normality and marched towards the basketball court, knowing that Jake would not follow. He has earlier thought he would wait until the basket ball fell close to him or for Joe to throw the ball in his direction, so he could force his way in to the game in a friendly manner, but Jake had riled him. He felt angry at Jake for coming on to him and angry at himself for reacting like he did. Shit, he thought as he barged his way on to the court, shouting loudly for the ball to be thrown his way. With a sudden burst of energy, Callen released his pent up emotional anger and fully immersed himself in the game, pushing all thoughts of sexual abuse and Jake from his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The mind-numbing routine of the detention centre seriously tried Callen's patience; the constant regimented structure of the day, the lack of ability for him to do whatever he wanted when he wanted. The craving for freedom persistently gnawed away at him and he struggled to control his emotions and his mouth, regularly earning himself extra class work or a slap either Mr Jessop or one of the Correction Officers. So far the other kids had pretty much left him alone, hopefully, Callen thought, as they realised he would be the one throwing the first punch.

The days soon blurred in to one another and despite his best intentions, he did fall in to the imposed routine without any further incidents. With the exception of his first two days in class, Callen now completed the Maths, English and any other work presented to him. He still did the bare minimum required to scrape through but the result was that he was not hauled in front of the class as often, unlike Southerby, who still suffered that humiliation on a daily basis. Both boys avoided speaking to each other and rarely made eye contact, something that Mr Jessop suddenly noticed the following week.

"And what do we have here?" The teacher asked the class. "Southerby and Callen seem to be doing their best to ignore each other. And when they were so close last week. Lover's tiff, maybe?"

The boys sniggered at Mr Jessop's words; they all knew about Southerby's sexual preferences. A piece of screwed up paper was thrown at the back Callen's head, landing on the floor beside his desk. Callen ignored it but Mr Jessop was not going to allow him that luxury.

"Pick it up boy," he ordered.

Callen leaned over and grabbed it from the floor. He kept it screwed up in his hand and remained at his desk.

"Stand up. Front of the class. You and Southerby."

Reluctantly, Callen noisily scraped his chair along the floor and slowly stood. He walked to the front, paper still in his hand.

"Southerby? Do you know the correct word for 'gay'?" Mr Jessop asked the shaking fourteen year old.

Jake remained silent, his eyes cast on the floor. This was an area of humiliation he had so far managed to avoid in the class and generally at Southgate. Callen on the other hand, was not prepared to be made a laughing stock, no matter what the punishment may be.

"Happy. To be gay means to be happy," Callen interrupted, unsure whether his answer would help build his reputation as fearless or mean he was cementing his association with Jake.

A couple of the boys laughed. Mr Jessop roughly prodded Callen in the chest and said. "Looks like Callen's better at English than he pretends to be. But _homosexual_ is the word I was looking for. What does it mean Callen?"

"Liking other boys," Callen sullenly replied, staring at his feet.

"Do you?" Jessop asked. "And look at me when I speak to you."

Callen slowly lifted his head, tilting up his chin. He narrowed his eyes and met Jessop's. "No," he said, insolently.

"Open up that bit of paper in your hand."

Callen did as he was told, unravelling the screwed up paper and holding it in both hands.

"Tell me and the class what's written on it," Jessop ordered, glancing at his audience.

Callen took a deep breath and swallowed. "It says 'cook socker'." He smirked at Mr Jessop, pleased that whoever wrote it could barely form his letters. Again there was a murmur among the class and muted laughter.

Jessop snatched the paper from his hand. "Interesting, however I think you might need glasses." He took a pen from his desk and traced over the letters to make them clearer and handed the paper back to Callen. "Try again."

Callen held out the paper and without looking at it stared defiantly at Mr Jessop and said. "Cock sucker," sounding out each word as though it were an insult directed at his teacher.

"And are you?" Jessop asked again, taking a threatening step towards the teenager.

"No," Callen replied with force.

"What about you Southerby?" Jessop turned his attention abruptly to the younger boy.

Jake remained silent. His cheeks had turned a bright shade of pink that was rapidly descending down the side of his neck. He blinked heavily, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

"Answer me Southerby," Jessop demanded. "Or you will receive ten lashes of the stick in front of the class. Do you like other boys?"

"Yes," Jake whispered. The ultimate humiliation was complete.

"Louder, they can't hear you at the back."

"Yes" Jake said.

"Callen, give Southerby that piece of paper."

Callen looked at Jessop in disbelief. Was he really going to ask Jake to read the words 'cock sucker' from the paper and then humiliate him further, like Jessop had tried to do with him?

"Why?"

"Don't question me boy, just do it."

"It says 'cock sucker' Jessop, or don't you believe me? You should know, you wrote it yourself. Maybe it did say 'cook socker' and you're the one that's really gay." Callen spat the words out at Jessop and was sure he heard several cheers from the class before Jessop grabbed him by the throat and pushed him several paces until he was slammed against the blackboard.

"I'm warning you kid," Jessop breathed. "You're gonna stand with Southerby at the front here for the rest of the lesson and not say one word. I'm giving you one last chance or by God you'll be sorry." Jessop dropped his voice to a whisper and continued. "Some of the prison officers here like boys, especially ones that need to be taught a lesson."

Callen tried to turn his face away but Jessop held him tight, refusing to loosen his grip. Without warning Jessop suddenly let go, causing Callen to stumble and nearly collapse.

Staring at the two boys, Jessop nodded and smiled. "As this is an English lesson, let me actually attempt to educate you." He turned his attention to the rest of the class. "Homosexuality has featured in literature since the classics – ancient Roman and Greek culture, art, mythology etc. but declared illegal in the eighteenth century. Until recently, writers could face legal action if they wrote about homosexuality. If you boys were intelligent enough I would make you read some of the books where the subtext is clearly homosexual. But I fear that apart from making you feel even more stupid than you already are, it may give you ideas for your communal shower times. For those inclined to go to the movies, if you ever leave prison, watch Less Than Zero. I would suggest reading the book but you'd only use the pages to wipe your ass...I'm sure most of you can identify with the drug fuelled and sexually depraved nature of the characters. Actually, Emmerson here can probably fill you in, he's our resident rich kid in here for dealing. Maybe he has a sick and depraved nature too…you could hook up with Southerby and Callen here, get your own drug dealing male hooker business going..."

Wil Emerson was sat in the back row and smiled briefly as some of the others turned around. Everyone knew he was from Bel Air and in Southgate for dealing a variety of drugs. Somehow, in his ten month stay, he had so far managed to keep himself clean and out of trouble. Or at least he had managed to not get caught, although most at Southgate assumed his rich mommy and daddy paid a premium to keep him safe. Emmerson himself had never encouraged or denied the rumour. Emmerson caught Callen's eye and winked. The two had chatted briefly over the past few weeks and discovered a common enemy in Matty B and his gang. Callen responded with a slight nod of his head. He then look at Joe who was seated next to Emmerson at the back and smiled, not caring whether Jessop saw or not, although luckily for him, he did not.

The brief lesson on homosexuality in literature came to an abrupt halt and Mr Jessop turned to his text book. "Open your books to chapter five. Smith, start reading."

For the next hour the class took turns in reading out aloud whilst Callen and Southerby remained standing at the front of the class. Neither boy was allowed to speak and neither tried. Jessop pointedly ignored them until the clock ticked round to mark the end of the school day. The class and Southerby were dismissed but Callen was ordered to remain standing.

Jessop walked up to Callen, and stood inches from him, invading his personal space. "I don't like you Callen," he said quietly, prodding a finger in to Callen's chest. "You're lazy, rude and nothing but trouble. One of these kids that plays dumb but is actually quite smart, and that can be a dangerous combination, give you ideas that you're better than the worthless piece of crap you really are."

Callen did not answer Jessop. What was he supposed to say, ' _You're a total bastard, a shit teacher, and I really hate you, but hey, thanks for the compliment about me being smart and dangerous?_ ' He was pretty sure that would get him a black eye, if not from Jessop, then from Pollack or Brown.

"You'll keep quiet in my class. You'll keep your head down and will not speak unless I ask you to. When you do speak your answers will be correct. I want no more of this smart-ass shit, do you understand?" Jessop paused to allow Callen a chance to answer; he remained silent. "Very good, maybe you're finally learning. If you don't follow these rules, I'll take that stick in the corner to your ass. If you persist, then I will have a word with Pollack. He seems convinced that you need more discipline instilled in you and that he's the man to do it. Do you understand?" Jessop let the threat hang in the air. He couldn't quite tell whether Callen was going to comply; only time would tell, but coupled with his earlier threat, he hoped he would have no more trouble.

"Yes," Callen muttered, deliberately leaving off the 'sir'. He had no respect for Jessop and no intention of pretending he did.

"Good, now get the fuck out of my classroom."

That was one order Callen had no qualms about following and he shot out the door before Mr Jessop really told him how he felt. Selfishly, he felt bad that he was once again dragged in front of the class and forced to defend himself after Jessop's accusations. Then he thought about Jake and figured he should try and find him. Callen still felt bad at not knowing how to handle Jake after their encounter outside the previous week. And as for Jessop's stunt in class, he could only imagine that Jake would probably want the ground to open up and swallow him. Callen himself wasn't feeling great about what happened - he was feeling pissed and angry - but he knew Jake would be feeling a hell of a lot worse than he did right now. Trouble about this place, Callen thought, was that there was nowhere to hide. The only time you were truly on your own was when you were locked in your cell over night.

Callen searched the recreation room, which that afternoon was vacant with the exception of three younger boys watching Roadrunner on TV. He stepped outside and scanned the basketball court but Jake was not one for sport. As he walked round the edge of concrete area he heard several voices shouting at him, calling him gay and something about not dropping the soap in the shower when Callen was around. Callen tried to let the words wash over him and continued walking until he was on the grass. He reminded himself that his first priority was to find Jake, apologise and make sure he was alright. He really did not want to get in to another fight just yet and this was going to be a real test of his self control. Reigning in his temper was not a strong point; in fact his temper and his impetuous nature were his main weaknesses. Callen stood and looked around him. Only the usual small groups of youths were gathered on the grass and Jake was not among them. Callen wondered if he had returned to his cell to escape the name calling that Callen was already experiencing.

He turned and jogged back to the exterior door, and then walked as far as the secure doors that led to the cell areas. Brown was loitering and Callen approached him.

"You seen Jake Southerby?" Callen asked.

"Why?" Brown looked at Callen suspiciously.

"He was complaining about stomach pains," Callen lied. "Did he go back to his cell?"

"No, now get back outside,"

"Maybe he went back and you didn't see?" Callen persisted.

"No he didn't and I don't like your tone or you calling me a liar," Brown took a threatening step towards Callen who instinctively took a pace back, having been on the receiving end of his baton during his first day at Southgate.

"That's not what I meant," Callen tried to explain.

"Get lost Callen, before you get yourself in to more trouble,"

Callen raised his hands in defeat, "Ok, I'm going."

Callen retreated back to the recreation room, where he stood and thought for a minute. Either Brown was lying to him, and he couldn't exclude that possibility, or Jake must be in the washroom. And if Jake was in the washroom then he had been in there for at least twenty minutes. Callen wondered why none of the COs had noticed as there was usually one guard at the entrance to that area. He suddenly felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and he bolted to the corridor that led from the rear of the recreation room. Shouting Jake's name, Callen banged open the door to the toilets, slamming each cubicle door wide open. None were locked and Jake was not in any of them. Callen paused for a moment and then turned the corner to check the communal shower room and stopped dead in his tracks as he saw Jake lying fully clothed in a pool of blood. He hesitated, unsure whether to approach Jake or to run for help. He nervously took a few paces towards Jake and knelt down. He was still breathing, although his breaths were coming in shallow gasps. Not knowing what else to do, Callen made a split second decision and headed back to find a guard.

Brown was still the only officer in sight and Callen started shouting at him.

"Brown, you gotta come quick, Jake's been stabbed, he's dying, there's blood everywhere, you gotta help him,"

The words came tumbling out of Callen's mouth and caught the attention of every youth within earshot. Brown tried to grab Callen by the scruff of his neck; he had blood on his trousers and the CO instantly thought Callen was to blame. Callen twisted out of Brown's reach at the same time as five other boys ran past towards the shower block.

"Call 911," Callen shouted to Brown, who was raising his portable radio to his mouth to call for back up first. If he wasn't careful there would be chaos and probably a riot. Pollack, Wells and two other officers suddenly appeared from behind a closed office door and headed after Brown who had started to chase Callen down the corridor.

Forcing the boys aside, Brown swore as he saw the bloodied body of Jake Southerby lying on the cold tiles of the showers. He shouted at Wells to call 911 and moved towards Jake. The blood was from deep cuts to Jake's left wrist; a broken razor blade lay beside his right hand. Brown shouted for one of the boys to give him their sweatshirt and when one was thrown at him, he wrapped it tightly around Jake's wrist. The cut appeared deep and the amount of blood pooled around Jake did not look promising. Someone had sounded the emergency alarm and the COs began to forcefully usher the boys out of the showers and back to their cells where they would be locked up, safely out of the way. Callen was last to be pushed out. It was his sweater that was tied around Jake's wrist; the knees to his trousers and soles of his plimsolls were covered in blood. The last words he heard from Brown were, "I think he's dead."

* * *

Thank you again to all the favourites, follows, comments and reviews posted here and on Twitter.

It's not a happy story but if an adult Callen still recalls his three weeks in juvie as "hell", it must have been bad, especially if he risked a further prison sentence by escaping, stealing a car, (driving without a licence) and deliberately crashing through a police barrier! I've just tried to imagine a version of that hell that doesn't go to the extremes of abuse, as I certainly couldn't write that and I'm sure most folk won't want to read that either. The power of suggestion is bad enough.

At least we all know there is light at the end of the tunnel and there is a happy ending...


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Callen sat on the bed in his cell shivering. He had not been given any clean clothes or a replacement sweat shirt. His knees were pulled in to his chest and he was rocking slightly. Even without official confirmation, he knew that Jake was dead. There was so much blood and everyone knew that slashing your wrists deep enough meant you bled out in minutes. Callen felt responsible. If he hadn't been so mean to Jake then Jessop wouldn't have noticed the tension between the two boys and Jake wouldn't have been humiliated and forced to admit he was gay in front of the class. Jessop was responsible too. Joe had warned him that the guards were vicious and sadistic but Jessop broke them down with words that cut to their very souls and in this case, the words were worse than the violence. Callen also blamed the officers. There should have been a guard at the entrance to the washrooms, mainly to keep the boys safe from physical and sexual attacks. The only guard on duty inside was Brown. Callen was pretty sure that Pollack had been sunning himself again outside, which meant that Wells and two others had just been hiding an office, shirking their responsibilities.

He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and waited. There was nothing else to do until the paramedics arrived and took Jake away. He had no idea how the detention centre handled these types of situations and he could only guess that he and all the other youths would remain locked up until morning, when they would continue their lives as though nothing had happened. Dinner had long since been forgotten and Callen had no appetite anyway. He eventually fell asleep for several hours, curled up in the corner of his bed until he awoke to the noise of his cell door unlocking.

"Callen, come with me." It was Brown and he appeared exhausted and almost human.

Callen looked at him suspiciously, wondering why he had to go with the officer in the middle of the night.

"Why?"

"Don't give me your bullshit, just do as you're told for once. The boss wants to see you, OK?" Brown ran his hands over his face, closing his eyes momentarily. "So just get your ass in gear."

Callen reluctantly unravelled himself from his blanket and sat on the edge of his bed, slipping his feet in to his blood stained plimsolls.

"Now Callen," Brown raised his voice impatiently.

Callen took a deep breath and stood up. Brown nodded and exited the cell, and Callen followed him through the corridors to a previously unseen office. The door was marked as belonging to 'Director McKenzie', the man who ran the detention centre. The director was sitting behind a grand oak desk positioned at the rear of the large room. On the large double sofa that was positioned along the side wall sat his social worker, Lorna Williams. The clock on the wall above her read a quarter past one and Callen wondered why she was here so late. Opposite the sofa was a single arm chair, and Brown laid claim to this, leaving Callen standing and confused.

"G. Callen, I am Director McKenzie and we want to talk to you about the events of yesterday afternoon. Sit."

Callen looked about him. The only free seats were the chair immediately in front of McKenzie's desk, and the sofa. Callen took the sensible option and tentatively sat on the sofa with his social worker, shuffling himself to the far left - as far away from Lorna Williams and the others as possible. He was also close to the door in case he had to bolt. Callen felt extremely edgy in the presence of the Director and Brown. At least his social worker was there, he thought, there was no way they could beat him with her present.

"Callen you're shivering," Miss Williams noticed. "Where's your sweater?"

"Gave it to Brown for Jake's wrist," Callen answered.

"Callen you will address Officer Brown with the respect he deserves, understood?" Director McKenzie interrupted.

"Sorry…sorry sir. Officer Brown used my jumper to try and save Jake." He may have addressed Brown correctly but there was little respect in his voice.

"Can we get Callen another set of clothes. He's clearly cold and probably in shock. Look, even his trousers are covered in blood." Miss Williams admonished the men in front of Callen, a move that did not go unnoticed by any of the males.

"Yes, Miss Williams, take Callen with you and get him another set of clothes. We'll reconvene again in ten minutes." McKenzie dismissed the room.

Callen followed Miss Willams out of the door and the two walked slowly along the corridor, Callen with his hands in his pockets and head towards the floor.

"Callen," Miss Williams slowed to a halt and placed her hand gently on his shoulder.

Callen jumped slightly and instinctively moved away from her touch.

"Callen," she repeated softly. "I'm worried about you. How are you?"

"OK," Callen lifted his head and shrugged his response.

"Really?"

"Yeah"

"Callen, I've known you for a number of months now and you've never flinched before. What else has happened to you in here?"

Lorna Williams' eyes were full of concern for the fifteen year old. She knew exactly what was in his files, both from a welfare and foster care point of view, as well as his burgeoning criminal record. She was always surprised he wasn't more messed up. She had seen kids who had experienced a lot less, behave a lot worse on all fronts. Callen may have had a tendency to not talk much to therapists and social workers generally, but when required, he was never afraid to speak his mind. However his physical reaction towards her, made her extremely worried.

"Jake happened," Callen lied. Sure finding Jake dying in a pool of blood was pretty bad, but his whole experience of Southgate was like a microcosm of the worst aspects of his life. He wasn't about to add that Jake was the icing on the cake that consisted of verbal bullying in class, the physical abuse from the Correction Officers, and the psychological torture of his six days in isolation.

Miss Williams shook her head. "No, there's more. You can talk to me, Callen. Like I said on your first day here, it's my job to help you, but you have to help yourself. If anyone here is abusing their position, their authority with vulnerable young adults, then you can help me to stop this."

The two stopped by a nondescript white door labelled "Laundry". Callen focused on the door handle, willing it to open without having to hold a conversation with his social worker.

"Can I get some clean clothes please?" Callen turned to Miss Williams and spoke softly, his clear blue eyes silently appealing to her to not probe any further.

The simplicity of the sentence, with the please tagged naturally at the end, tugged on Lorna's heartstrings. Something had happened to Callen, something outside of his finding Jake in the showers, and she feared it had started when Callen had initially been arrested for breaking and entering. She smiled gently and placed her hand on the door handle, pulling open the laundry room door. Callen hovered around the entrance, and a minute later Lorna appeared with clean clothes and plimsolls in his size. Callen accepted the clothes and moved past her, pulling the door closed so he could change in private. Five minutes later, after knocking on the door to make sure he was Ok, Callen emerged in clean, warm clothes. They walked back to the director's office without speaking.

Once the small group had settled again, McKenzie took control.

"Callen, I'm sorry to have to tell you but Jake Southerby died of his injuries today. I know you two were friends…"

Callen nearly laughed aloud. He didn't know what was more ridiculous; that he had been woken up to be told what he already knew or that the Director of the detention centre presumed to know him. "We weren't friends," Callen corrected him. "Jessop busted us in class a few times." Catching a glimpse of McKenzie's face, Callen added. "Mr Jessop…"

"Yes, well," McKenzie glossed over the corrections. "I also want you to know that you are no longer under any suspicion of assaulting Southerby…he unfortunately took his own life."

Callen stared coldly at the institute's director. How the hell could anyone think that Jake had done anything other than commit suicide? And why would they even consider the possibility that he had killed Jake?

"Miss Williams will be in close contact with the counsellor and we'll squeeze you in a special therapy session tomorrow,"

"I don't need therapy, I'll be fine," Callen raised his head as he addressed McKenzie, hoping he sounded mature and respectful. He really had no desire to talk about how he felt regarding this whole experience with Jake, however, he thought, there was something that would help ease his conscious for how he treated Jake, and maybe help others too. "But I want to make a complaint about the abuse at Southgate," he added.

The temperature in the room suddenly dropped as Callen's words were registered by all parties. Brown glanced quickly at McKenzie, who acknowledged him with a slight widening of his eyes. He then looked at Miss Williams' before turning his attention to the scruffy and insolent fifteen year old who sat next to her.

"This is an upstanding institution that operates in extremely difficult circumstances, with teenagers who are very troubled, and I will not have you slandering us as you feel aggrieved by your friend's death." McKenzie had slapped his palms on his desk and he leaned forward, glaring at the youth who dared to rock the boat. "You, Callen, have already proved that you're one of the more troubled youths here, so don't you dare to make unsubstantiated accusations."

Callen's heart sank as McKenzie made his stance clear but instead of retracting his complaint, Callen persisted. The first step was speaking up, that was what Miss Williams had told him on his first day here, what she had repeated to him in the corridor earlier, and that was exactly what he was doing now, in front of her. This way he would have a witness who was on his side. His allegations could not be swept under the carpet.

"Jake was bullied by Jessop all the time. Every lesson he was made to stand in front of the class and told he was stupid," Callen said slowly and concisely. "About an hour before Jake killed himself, Jessop humiliated Jake by asking him if he was gay, if he liked boys and if he liked sucking cock."

"That is enough," roared McKenzie. "If I spoke like that as a child, I would have my mouth washed out with soap. Maybe that's what we should do with you!"

Callen looked at Brown, whose face was turning red with fury. Miss Williams' mouth had dropped open in shock and she had raised her hand to her face in an attempt to cover her reactions. He was on a roll now and if there was ever an opportunity to make a difference, this was it.

"Jessop bullied Jake and then made him a target for everyone else. Jake was fucked up in the head. I think his father touched him and stuff. Jake just couldn't cope anymore and you should have stopped it."

"I'm sure that's not what happened," McKenzie said, now leaning back in his leather chair as he gathered his composure. "And you need to leave your foul mouth at the door and the psychiatric assessments to the professionals."

"I'm not lying, he told me," Callen protested. "And what about the guards? No one was at the entrance to the washrooms. The only CO on duty was Brown and he was by the cells. I told Brown to call 911 and he just tried to attack me. He didn't even call 911 until he chased me to the washrooms and saw Jake lying on the floor, dying. It's all your fault," Callen finished lamely, knowing he was now sounding like a young child. "You could have saved Jake but you just didn't care…no one cares in here.

"Callen," Miss Williams spoke before either of the men could answer Callen's accusations. "Director McKenzie will of course investigate your claims, but listen to yourself. I don't think you're fine. You are clearly upset and you need to speak to your counsellor tomorrow and I will be here to support you if you need me."

"Of course your social worker is correct," McKenzie smiled patronisingly. "You're in shock and I doubt you realise what you're saying. Officer Brown will escort you back to your cell now so you can rest and try to recover from this traumatic experience."

"But I haven't finished!" Callen witnessed another look between Brown and McKenzie and his heart sank as he realised his complaint would go no further, and that he had probably just made his own life at Southgate even more difficult. Hell, he thought, he might as well finish what he'd started. Callen took a deep breath and continued. "I've been bullied too and punched and kicked and threatened..."

"Callen, I promise you that all your allegations will be thoroughly investigated," his social worker said, staring pointedly at McKenzie, who had pursed his lips and was nodding in agreement. "I will make sure of it."

"Of course. Even though you're clearly traumatised, I will look into your complaints." McKenzie half heartedly reassured him. "But the best treatment for you right now is sleep - Brown?"

Callen stood and opened the door, leaving without so much as a glance back. He knew his social worker was trying to support his complaint but he seriously doubted she would have much influence on initiating a formal investigation in to the abuse at Southgate. So much for honesty and trust, Callen thought, yet again realising that he should just have kept his mouth shut. Brown was following behind Callen and the two walked in silence until they were out of earshot and sight of the director's office. Brown grabbed Callen by his shoulder and pushed him up against the wall.

"I did everything I could," Brown hissed. "I did not kill Jake. He killed himself. There was nothing I could do. Nothing…"

"You could have believed me," Callen answered back, unsure whether Brown was genuinely feeling guilty or just trying to cover his own back. "I told you what had happened. I told you to dial 911 but you didn't believe me."

"What do you expect Callen? This place is full of troublemakers, liars and thieves. It was more likely that you stabbed him and was trying to give yourself an alibi." Brown dropped his hand away from Callen's shoulder and took a step back, reverting back to type. "And as for your accusations about how you've been treated here, you have no idea what you've just started. I'd hate to be in your shoes tomorrow. Now stop whining and move."

Callen felt as though Brown had punched him. He felt sick to his stomach as he realised Brown had such a low opinion of him that he thought him capable of murder. He now had confirmation that his complaints had fallen on deaf ears. His life was going to become hell. The lack of food from missing dinner suddenly made him light headed, and he remained standing against the wall for a few seconds until his vision recovered and he believed he could walk without collapsing.

"I said move," Brown pulled Callen away from the wall and pushed him in front, almost causing him to stumble.

Maybe it's shock, Callen thought. He felt nauseous, dizzy, tired and delirious after his emotional outpouring. Talking had not helped, it had just made him feel sick. The walk back to his cell seemed to take forever, and he was now feeling lower than earlier, lower than when he'd been shut in his cell thinking over and over about Jake's death, finding him laying in a pool of his own blood.

\- NCISLA-

The next day started with the usual early alarm which woke Callen from a restless sleep, and he reluctantly trundled towards the wash rooms. The daily routine of showering was filled with trepidation, not just from Callen but from all the boys. They were unsure what sights they may encounter and were relieved when there was nothing at all to see. No remnants of the Jake's life remained; the pools of blood had been scrubbed away during the night. Callen thought it must be the cleanest the shower room had been in years, or at least since the last murder or suicide had taken place there. Breakfast in the dining room was also a muted affair. The boys spoke in whispers, with a few sideways glances towards Callen. The rumour mill had worked well and almost everyone knew that he and Jake had been humiliated about liking boys before Jake had killed himself. Callen's only company at breakfast was Joe, who had seen Callen sitting on his own. He figured Callen could use a friend, for which Callen was grateful, and the two sat in a comfortable silence until the end of the meal time.

Mr Jessop was noticeably absent from class that day and his position was filled by a substitute teacher named Mr Smart who literally lived up to his name. Unfortunately the class did not and he lost them intellectually after the first five minutes. He lost control of them behaviourally after six. Chaos ensued with paper being thrown across the room, name calling - mainly towards Mr Smart - feet on chairs, and general unruly behaviour. The increase in noise and movement around the classroom eventually drew the attention of Officer Pollack who threw open the door and silenced the class with a threatening stare. Luckily Callen had already returned to his desk after a heated debate with their resident rich kid, Wil Emmerson. The two had argued about which NFL team was the best, with Callen supporting the New England Patriots and Emmerson, the LA Rams. As they continued, Emmerson gained support from the teens that were local, although a handful were fans of the 49ers. Callen was in the minority but was very vocal in his opinion, drawing in the support of the few other kids that did not originate from California. At one point Callen and Emmerson had stood, facing off against each other, until Joe pulled Callen away, forcing him to sit back at his desk. A quick reminder that he could end up back in solitary, made Callen take stock and to his credit, he remained seated but highly alert as to which way the argument was going.

Wil Emmerson was now arguing with another boy, Rob, who was an obsessive fan of the Dallas Cowboys, and this time a fist did fly from Emmerson, who connected with Rob's jaw just as Pollack had flung the door open. Without uttering a word, Pollack strode up to Emmerson and grabbed the front of his sweatshirt. Muttering angrily to himself, Pollack literally dragged Emmerson through the door, his voice raising as he started to describe in great detail the punishment that Emmerson now faced. Mr Smart closed the door and stared at the boys, who all realised they were on a knife edge with their behaviour in class that day. Seats were re-taken, desks straightened and some even opened their text books in anticipation.

Emmerson was not seen for the rest of the day however Pollack returned and sat on a stall in the corner of the room to keep a close eye on Mr Smart's class. Unsurprisingly, the boys were meticulously behaved until they were released from lessons mid afternoon.

That dinner time, Emmerson walked slowly through the dining area, his left arm tucked protectively around his ribs. Although there was no visible bruising to his face, it was clear that Pollack had instilled his own form of physical punishment and Callen selfishly felt grateful that on this occasion, he was not the victim. He was surprised there had been no repercussions yet from his own accusations of assault made to McKenzie, and Callen wondered if he could risk providing more detail of his physical abuse to Miss Williams and his therapist. Maybe he had to provide them with evidence, and that could mean he would have to take another beating. Someone swore at him to move forward in the queue for dinner, shoving him hard in the back. Callen turned round and pushed the youth back in retaliation. He shuffled forward, wondering if he would ever actually have the therapy sessions he kept being promised. For once, he might actually be truthful about his feelings – well his feelings about Southgate and its abuse – not on his own emotional well-being, that would just be stupid.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Callen woke with a start. A low grating noise had disturbed his sleep and he raised his head towards the only possible source of the noise; his cell door. Two dark shapes moved quickly to his bed and a hand covered his mouth and nose before he could shout for help. Instinctively Callen struggled, raising his hands to his face, trying to force away the strange hands that were suffocating him. The other person now snatched at Callen's arms and pinned them behind his back, so he kicked his legs violently, hoping to make contact with one of his attackers. The world was rapidly turning black and Callen fleetingly thought it was fitting that he would die in a prison cell. The hands killing him suddenly let go and he gasped for air. He breathed in deeply and filled his lungs, rocking forwards until the pressure on his shoulders became worse than his need to breathe. The man behind him let go of his arms and both Pollack and Wells filled his vision. Wells sat himself half way up Callen's bed and Callen was reminded of Joe's warning that Wells had a liking for boys. Callen inched way from him in to the top corner of his bed.

"You've made a serious complaint about abuse and neglect. You've accused Southgate, Mr Jessop and Officer Brown of murdering Southerby and we're not having it." Pollack was standing over Callen and Wells, his six foot three frame every bit as intimidating as he intended.

Callen tensed himself ready for a punch, probably to the ribs where the damage would be hidden. That type of abuse he could handle, it was the close proximity of Wells that terrified him.

"I don't think you learned your lesson from your first day. Now the bruises have healed, you've forgotten who's in charge. It's not snivelling little fuckers like you or Southerby or jumped up bullies like Bramell," Pollack was referring to Matty B and his gang. "It's me, Wells and Brown. In class it's Jessop. We keep you and your lies away from McKenzie and from damaging the service we provide to the community by keeping you bastards locked up."

"We don't neglect or abuse," Wells continued, explaining in a calm and patronising voice, as though Callen were a young child. "We have strict rules and we discipline those who refuse to toe the line. And every single prisoner is here because they can't toe the line. You reap what you sow Callen." Wells placed his hand on Callen's ankle causing him to flinch. He tightened his grip, before letting go to rub the inside of Callen's ankle with his finger tips. "You're vulnerable Callen and there won't always be a pretty little social worker you can suck in with those big blue eyes of yours. Y'know accidents do happen in here...but then maybe someone will comfort you, give you a bit of love - something that's clearly been missing from your miserable, worthless life..."

Wells patted Callen's foot and stood up and Callen quickly moved his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. Wells could tell his words had the desired effect and he smiled, nodding his head. Callen for once had remained silent - no sarcastic remark or smart-ass comment. Even in the dimmed light of the cell, Wells could see that Callen had visibly paled.

"You're going to withdraw your allegations, say you were lying to get attention, or whatever crap you liars make up, otherwise I'll show you what real abuse and neglect is. Don't make me come back and visit you..." Pollack warned, leading Wells to the cell door. "Next time I won't be as understanding, but Wells will be here to comfort you some. Sweet dreams, now..."

The door clanged shut, the noise reverberating in the still of the night. Callen barely allowed himself to breathe and he could feel himself shaking uncontrollably through fear. He told himself to breathe normally and to stop shaking, but his thoughts had little effect. Tears began to well at the corners of his eyes and Callen angrily wiped them away before they fell. He was not going to let the bastards of Southgate win. He refused to let them break him. Callen held his right hand out in front of him, willing it to remain steady. By focusing all his attention of his hand, he momentarily blanked the night visit from his mind and after several minutes, his hand stopped shaking. It was a hollow victory of mind over matter that quickly disappeared as Callen's thoughts drifted back to Pollack and Wells' threats. He closed his eyes, knowing he could sleep sitting up - but visions of Wells filled the darkness. Callen opened his eyes again quickly and grabbed his blanket, pulling it round him until it was tight around his neck, as though it would protect him from further harm. Callen remained in the same position until the first light of morning, pressed into the corner of his bed, eyes focused on the door to his cell, petrified that Wells might pay him a visit without Pollack for company.

The following morning, Callen was one of the first to breakfast and sat at a table in the far corner. His plan to remain anonymous for breakfast and hopefully for the rest of the day, was short lived when Joe decided to join him.

"You look like shit," Joe said with a mouthful of food.

Callen looked up at him for a moment and then back down at his plate.

"You OK?" Joe asked, a puzzled look in his eyes. He was already familiar with Callen's moods, which in all honesty were no different to most of the other kids at Southgate. He lowered his spoon which was already loaded with his next mouthful of cereal. "Did something happen?"

Callen shrugged, and placed his fingers round his glass of orange juice, gently swirling it round. "Yeah," he said. He pushed the glass away, causing the juice to spill over and raked his fingers through his hair. "They came to see me last night."

Joe's eyes widened slightly. No further explanation was required as to who 'they' were. "What happened?"

"After Jake, I had to go see the director so they could tell me I didn't kill him and then they offered me counselling. Y'know cause clearly finding Jake has fucked me up so much more than all the other shit in my life." Callen picked up the spoon to his cereal and started fiddling with it, distracting and distancing himself from the words he was uttering. "Y'know they beat me pretty bad before they put me in that isolation cell..they pissed me off and killed Jake...So I accused them of abuse and murder."

Callen stopped and stared at Joe who was now leaning back in his chair, shaking his head.

"Are you fucking crazy?" He asked. "No, I already knew you were crazy but that was just fucking stupid. Jake killed himself. Why the hell would you say that?"

"I got kinda angry," Callen replied. In retrospect, it had been a very stupid thing to do, to try and whistle blow on abuse whilst he was still at Southgate. "But Jessop did make Jake kill himself and Pollack and Brown gave me a beating before they threw me in solitary. My social worker was there so I thought she would back me up."

"You need to sort your temper out before someone sorts you out for good," Joe said.

Callen rolled his eyes and looked to his left. He knew Joe was making sense. He should have kept his temper in check and his mouth shut. But then if he didn't speak up, who would?

"Did she?" Joe asked.

"Did she what?"

"Your social worker, did she back you up?"

"Yeah, well I think so. She said she would make sure my accusations were investigated."

"Hmm," Joe started eating again and Callen could almost see the cogs turning in his mind. "So you had a visit to tell you to keep your mouth shut."

"Pretty much, tell them everything I said was a lie...or else..."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Fuck me you're hard work today Callen, it's normally me with the shit for brains," Joe smiled to make sure Callen understood there was no malice to his remarks.

"I sorta made myself stay awake after they threatened me, just in case."

"So," pressed Joe. "What are you going to do?"

Callen shrugged again. "They all think I'm a liar anyway, so I'll lie and tell them what they want to hear."

"What about your social worker?"

"I reckon she knows I was telling the truth but the COs and the director will just overrule her."

"Maybe Wil Emmerson can back you up. I mean he was beaten yesterday?"

"No way," Callen said vehemently. "It's my battle. Anyway, Wil can owe me one for keeping him out of it,"

"But he doesn't even know he could be in it," Joe looked confused, unsure where Callen was going.

"If I keep his name out of this crap, then I'm doing him a favour and then he'll owe me one."

"Owe you one what?"

"I thought you said I had shit for brains?" Callen suddenly smiled at Joe. His blue eyes lit up and he momentarily forgot about the mess he was in. "You do know Emmerson can get anything in here; drugs, smokes, knives, screwdrivers, blades..."

"Wwwhat?" Joe stammered, his eyes widening in surprise. As far as he knew, Callen had not touched any contraband whilst at Southgate and the three of the five items he'd mentioned were weapons.

"I don't have to use them, stupid. I can use them to trade, or threaten, or set someone up."

"Sounds like you're pretty clued up." Joe hadn't considered that the weapons could be used for anything other than direct violence.

"I've been around," Callen shrugged. He knew he could use the weapons if he really had to defend himself. On the outside, he had always used his fists and knew how to beat his opponents by fighting dirty. He didn't always win but he usually inflicted damage to the other person. Setting up someone by planting weapons or drugs on them would be a dangerous but exciting challenge, and an idea which Callen would park until such time as it was needed.

"You gonna eat that?" Joe asked, pointed at Callen's untouched cereal with his spoon.

Callen pushed the bowl towards Joe and instead reached for his juice. No matter how much bravado he had just displayed in front of Joe, the previous night's visit had seriously shaken him up and he had no appetite.

Joe grabbed the bowl and dug his spoon in, glancing at Callen as he did. He knew Callen could clearly take care of himself but he was starting to get worried. He was talking about weapons and drugs, which was fine if he didn't get caught with them. But if Callen didn't start to use his brains properly and control his temper, he would end up crossing the wrong person, either in Southgate or on the outside. One way or another, Joe reckoned Callen was headed to an early grave and would probably be dead before he turned twenty-one. If he wasn't, he would be back in prison.

Ten minutes later, before class started, Callen was summoned to McKenzie's office, escorted by Wells. Before Wells knocked on the door to announce their arrival he pushed Callen up against the wall and brought his face up close to Callen's.

"Remember what we said last night? You made everything up 'coz you're a liar and a troublemaker. There's nothing to investigate...unless of course you'd enjoy some night time visits?"

Callen stared at a spot on the wall to the left of Wells, willing him to get out of his face but Wells stayed firm. He wasn't going to move until he'd had reassurance from Callen that he was going to play ball.

"OK," Callen said forcefully, trying to sound braver than he felt. He struggled to push past Wells to reach the relative safety of the director's office, but Wells remained a solid force in front of Callen. He tried again, this time squeezing past Wells who smiled as they made body contact, then swiftly moved away and knocked on the office door.

"Enter," commanded Director McKenzie.

The two entered the room. Present were the director, Callen's social worker and a man he had not yet met. The stranger was dressed in a tweed jacket with dark slacks and brown loafers. He looked to be in his fifties, with greying hair and thick spectacles. Callen guessed he was the psychiatrist with whom he should have been having weekly therapy sessions.

"Thank you Wells," McKenzie dismissed the Correction Officer, who shot a warning glance at Callen before exiting the room. "Callen this is Mr Woodley, he's the psychiatrist here at Southgate and he'll be counselling you after Southerby's death."

Callen looked at the shrink and then back to McKenzie. So far, he was not impressed.

"Excuse me," Lorna Williams spoke. "But are you telling me that after almost three weeks Callen hasn't attended any therapy sessions?" The shock and confusion was evident in her face.

"Miss Williams," Director McKenzie spoke patronisingly. "Callen started a fight with two inmates on his first day and then attacked the officers who broke up the fight. His punishment was a week in the isolation unit. Since then he's been a permanent disruptive force in class and then of course there was his involvement in the unfortunate death of Southerby. Therapy sessions as such have not been at the forefront of our minds, Miss Williams, not for this boy until today."

Callen glared at the director. The little white lies which had trickled out of McKenzie's mouth were almost believable. The only reason all three were in this room at this very moment was down to his accusations, not because they were concerned about his mental health.

"Callen has been summoned here as I've been told he has a further statement to make about event leading to Southerby's death..." McKenzie continued.

"Suicide," Callen corrected, muttering under his breath. If he wasn't careful he would lose his temper. "Suicide," he spoke louder now. "Southerby killed himself, that's the only truth. Everything else is a lie."

"What do you mean?" Miss Williams asked.

"I made it all up," Callen looked defiantly at his social worker, daring her to contradict his statement.

"What? Why?" Miss Williams was confused and at her words Callen raised his head sharply to face her.

Lorna Williams had repeatedly asked Callen to voice his complaints about poor treatment and abuse in foster care and she had re-emphasised the point during their conversation on his first day at Southgate. As with most of the children she encountered in her job, she knew the truth would often be exaggerated or exploited, particularly by those seeking revenge or attention. She had even caught Callen out when he lied about one of his foster families. However she believed she could see through Callen's bravado, particularly during his intake meeting with her. He had let his guard down ever so slightly and she had caught a glimpse of the vulnerable fifteen year old.

Callen remained facing his social worker and then in turn, focused his gaze on the psychiatrist and the director. Content he owned the room at that precise moment, Callen spoke clearly and confidently.

"I lied that Jessop bullied Southerby in class. Jessop treated Jake the same as he treats everyone else. Pollack and Wells were guarding the entrance to the cells like normal and I had to trick my way past them. And Brown did call 911 straight away and he was first in the showers and he tried to save Jake's life."

"Callen?" Miss Williams challenged. The initial accusations were too serious and passionate to have been made up, she was convinced of that. She had heard rumours about the poor standards of Southgate but never first hand. She was also well aware that despite investigations, nothing had ever been substantiated. It was one reason why she insisted on remaining as involved with her social charges as possible. She was sure that Callen was lying now and not the previous night.

"What did you mean last night when you said you'd been assaulted too? Did you mean your arresting officers, or the ones in here?"

Callen looked down at his hands, assuming the guilty look of a liar who had been caught out. "I was mad at everyone. I just made you think it happened here. I didn't mean anything I said yesterday, I was just confused and angry." He looked up at Miss Williams, widening his blue eyes in innocence, adding softly. "If you want proof, I can take my sweater and trousers off so you can see there's no bruising as I haven't been beaten."

Callen was taking a slight gamble by offering to strip, knowing he had a few bruises on his upper arms and chest that had not yet faded, however he would have bet a lot of Wil Emmerson's money, that his social worker would not take him up on his offer.

"Do you now see the challenges we face here?" McKenzie asked Lorna Williams and Mr Woodley. "Callen is by no means the worst youth here but he is currently the one causing the most trouble with his lies and his fighting."

"Callen, why did you feel the need to lie about such serious issues?" Woodley spoke for the first time.

Callen shrugged. "Brown and Pollack got me sent to solitary and I wanted to get back at them. I thought I could get them fired. Jessup made me look stupid in front of the class and I wanted revenge."

Callen stared at Woodley and Williams, daring then to contradict or to challenge his words. When neither spoke Callen realised that his lies must be more believable than the truth, a result of his past behaviour, like the boy who cried wolf.

McKenzie shuffled through some papers on his desk. "Callen, you will address your superiors correctly as Officer Pollack, Mr Jessop and so on. I've reviewed your daily academic reports Callen, and you seem to be more than capable of making yourself look stupid. Your first day in class and you wrote nothing more than your name. You've improved a little since then, so whatever actions Mr Jessop took to resolve your attitude from your first class, has actually started to work. Maybe if you actually made more of an effort, Mr Jessop would ease up the pressure on you."

Williams shook her head in confusion. This was the first she had heard of Callen's failings in class and McKenzie's words did make sense to a certain extent. She had not met Mr Jessop or sat in on the class as an observer and that was an action she would ensure she took as soon as possible. She wanted to believe the best of the children she interacted with and really could not understand why Callen had suddenly changed his story. Surely, she thought, a child was much more likely to be telling the truth in the aftermath of a traumatic event. Something or someone must have forced Callen to change his story.

"I don't believe you." She twisted her body so she faced away from the two men and was directly facing Callen. "Has someone told you to retract your earlier allegations?"

Three sets of eyes focused on Callen, intrigued to hear how he would respond. Callen knew he had to survive Southgate and serve the remainder of his sentence in relative safety and so he continued to suppress the truth.

"I'd never seen a dead body before and seeing Jake like that, knowing he felt so bad that he killed himself, I just got really confused and angry. We had a row a week ago and we never made up," Callen explained, deliberately mixing up partial truths with lies. "And I really don't like it here, so lied to get Brown and Jessop in to trouble."

McKenzie nodded in understanding but Woodley decided to put his psychiatric hat on.

"I read your file before this meeting. There was a lot to get through and the summary pages proved useful, especially the section that states you witnessed your foster brother get beaten to death when you were nine. Are you still lying?"

Callen shrugged, looking at Woodley with a shocked expression. "Oh...Jason." He broke away and dropped his head, staring at the floor. "I must've forgot that happened...Jason...it was ages ago...but I'm not lying now."

"OK," Woodley said, content to park that response until his one on one therapy session with Callen. "So why did you want to get them in to trouble?"

"Weren't you listening? I just told you. And Brown threw me in solitary on my first day for nothin'. All I did was shoot some pool and the others didn't like it when I won. _They_ started the fight and then those bastards Brown and Pollack lock me up." Callen calculated it was time to start losing his temper in a controlled manner. If nothing else he would just come across as rude and angry, which would serve to wind them up further. The more they believed he was a vindictive brat whose word could not be relied on, the sooner they would leave him alone.

"That's enough Callen." McKenzie said. "You know damned well that you instigated a fight within hours of your arrival here. You do the crime, you do the time, as they say. Fighting is a crime at Southgate and you were punished. Mr Jessop pulled you up for not completing a single stroke of school work on your first day in class. That's not acceptable for any child. Whilst you're here, you will behave, attend class and work hard. And as you can't be civil then I think we're done here. Your lack of apology for wasting my time has been noted, and your false accusations have been struck from your record, although your lies and trouble making have been duly included in your file. And don't make the mistake of thinking I'll forget this in a hurry." He picked his phone before Miss Williams could comment further. "Wells, come and take Callen back and bring the next one in."

Wells entered the room quickly and Callen wondered if he'd been eavesdropping. "On your feet," he ordered.

Callen obeyed and walked towards the door.

"First therapy session is this afternoon Callen," Woodley called out. "See if we can find the root cause of your compulsive lying and start working on anger management issues."

As the door closed behind him, he could hear the raised voice of Miss Williams arguing her support of Callen and his original statement. Callen realised he had still not quite convinced her that he was just a lost cause and he walked along the corridor towards the class rooms with Wells by his side.

"The root cause of your attitude is that you're trash and my team is already correcting your behaviour. Much better than talking about your feelings with a shrink, eh Callen?" Wells chuckled at his own joke. "The first step was you telling the truth in that office. You admitted you're a liar and there's no abuse or neglect here. But I have a feeling we're gonna need to remind you, maybe every few days...and maybe every few nights."

"I did what you asked, just leave me alone," Callen said sullenly.

Wells grabbed Callen's arm and spun him round so they were facing each other. "Don't speak unless you're spoken to. I own you and don't you forget it."

"No chance," Callen muttered.

"What was that? Are you still answering me back, boy?"

"No sir," Callen replied monotonously.

"Good. I hear Mr Jessop is back today, so I'm sure you'll have an excellent time in his lessons."

Callen bit his tongue and walked ahead of Wells and in to the class room. The only vacant desk was at the front of the class again and he threw himself in the chair, looking up in time to see Wells and Jessop exchange glances. He had hoped it meant that Wells was letting Jessop know that he wouldn't be causing any problems in class for a while. Callen could do with a few quiet days. He thought about how he had been living before he'd been arrested, always alert and on the edge. It had been such exhausting way to live but exhilarating - he had been free; there were no rules and no constraints and he had actually enjoyed life. At Southgate there were rules, constraints and he was constantly on alert. The amount of energy that was required for life in the detention centre was much higher than he needed to survive on the streets - a different type of exhaustion, a negative type of exhaustion as opposed to the adrenaline rush he enjoyed on the outside.

"Callen!" Jessop yelled, causing him to start. "Since you were last in, you can be first to start reading chapter six, Colonial Settlement."

Callen opened the thick text book on his desk to chapter six, allowing the hard back cover to thump loudly on the table and he started reading.

He read for half an hour continuously, stumbling over a few words and losing his place twice before Jessop allowed him to stop. Emmerson now seemed to be the child of choice for Jessop to pick on and in keeping with their history topic, the resident rich kid was, according to Jessop, most likely descended from the English colonial elite of Charleston. He fired question after question at Emmerson on the Pilgrim Fathers and early British Colonialism of America. As the only inmate of Southgate to have attended school regularly, and a private school at that, he was able to answer each one correctly. Unable to belittle Emmerson, Jessop decided to pick on other youths, fixating on those who could be relied on to answer incorrectly. Callen rested his chin in his hands. All the while Jessop was ignoring him he could afford not to listen to his drivel. His thoughts wandered to adventures in the wilds of the Eastern American Frontier, with Pilgrims fighting against Mother Nature and the Native Americans to build new communities in a harsh and unforgiving landscape. His eyes drew heavy and as his head fell, he jolted awake several times before Jessop realised the fifteen year old was falling asleep in his class.

"Boring you, are we Callen?" Jessop had moved in front of Callen's desk and was now leaning over him.

"No sir," Callen muttered, trying to blink away the tiredness. Events of the past few days had finally caught up with him, and now he was going to have to force himself to stay awake at night, just in case Wells in particular, paid him another visit.

"If you don't stay awake I'll make you stand in front of the class and you can read the entire seventy six pages of the next chapter out loud to the class."

Callen looked up at Jessop. That was not the reaction he had been expecting, or even the punishment. He wondered if someone had spoken to Jessop and warned him to not be quite as harsh on them all for a while. Callen nodded slightly, refraining from a verbal response lest it served to antagonise Jessop unnecessarily and he wondered if maybe he was finally learning something at Southgate; the art of self control. Feeling proud of himself for not answering back, Callen spent the next hour fighting the desire to close his eyes.

* * *

Thank you to my hard core group of reviewers - you are all amazing and I am astounded at the comments and private messages I have received. And to those who faithfully read but don't review, I hope you are still enjoying (not sure that is the right word) this story, and stay with it to the end. There's not too much more of this hell for Callen to endure, I think he's had enough now.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

After class, Callen was escorted to another previously unseen office, this time by Brown. They stood in silence outside the office and Brown rapped on the door.

"Come in," Woodley's voice sounded from within.

Brown opened the door wide and allowed Callen to enter, closing the door behind him. Callen stood still for a few seconds. In front of him was Mr Woodley, the centre's councillor, therapist, shrink or head doctor. They were all terms that were used to describe the same type of person; some busybody who thought they knew you better than you knew yourself, Callen thought, moving towards the only vacant chair in the room.

The office was small but cosy, with two green coloured arm chairs separated by a mahogany coffee table, which held centre stage. To the rear of the room were two matching low level bookcases, full of hardback books on psychology and child development, as well as scientific studies on criminology. Above the bookcase, a window provided a tantalising vista of the green fields and blue skies which lay beyond the confines of Southgate - a cruel reminder of the life which might have been or alternatively, a glimpse of hope of what life still may hold.

"Callen," Mr Woodley commenced, sitting down in the arm chair opposite Callen. "How are you today?"

"OK"

"Good," Mr Woodley said, grabbing a thick ring-binder file from the coffee table.

Callen could see his name along the spine of the folder and wondered where the second one was. He'd attended enough counselling and therapy sessions to know that Woodley had only half of his records.

"And how are you feeling about events over the past few days?"

"OK"

Woodley looked up from his file and smiled at Callen. "Now we've established that you're OK, I think we can move on. So tell me a bit about yourself?"

Callen stared at Woodley. He had his file open in front of him, he knew everything he needed to already.

Woodley read Callen's confusion and mistrust. "I mean, tell me what's not in the file, like your favourite sport, books, your favourite colour? What excites you?"

Callen shrugged. So Woodley had spoken to his social worker and was trying to play the positive card, focusing on the good things and then gradually worming his way around to saying that he was a good kid and circumstance and bad choices had led him to being at Southgate. Callen knew that _he_ was the reason he was at Southgate. He was choosing a life of crime, and he actually enjoyed the excitement and adrenaline rush, from the planning stage, right through to the escape. He was only at Southgate because he had been caught, which was not a mistake he would be making again.

"Callen?"

"I like most sport, fiction stories and the colour grey," he replied with a neutral tone of voice.

"That's great," Woodley jotted a few notes on a lined writing pad. "Tell me about your favourite sport?"

Great, Callen thought, open questions. He knew it was basic psychology but he much preferred questions to which he could answer 'yes' or 'no'.

"I like basketball," he answered. Callen gave away the minimum amount of information possible. He realised it was a team sport; fast paced and physical, something which Woodley was bound to pick up.

"Ah yes, such a quick game. Thinking on your feet, trusting in your team and their reflexes. Any team in particular?"

Callen shrugged. He had never been to a professional game and didn't particularly have any allegiances, unlike football.

"And what about your favourite book?" Woodley asked seamlessly.

Callen shrugged again and then realised that his body language was becoming predictable, almost like a twitch.

"Well what about your favourite genre, or type of books. For example, action, adventure, thriller, spy, historical drama, romance..." Woodley smiled to himself as he watch Callen involuntarily shudder when he mentioned 'romance'. It was no surprise, he rarely encountered any male teen who admitted to enjoying romance books. If he had replaced romance with pornography, which he sometimes did, the reaction from the males was frequently one of embarrassed laughter.

"Adventure, I guess."

"Which author or series?"

Callen resisted the urge to sigh. "Hardy Boys, I read a few last year."

"Good, yes, they're quite popular with teenagers. What do you enjoy most about them?"

Callen stared at his hands. He had a feeling this was going to be a long and tedious session. "They solve mysteries."

"What else?"

"The danger and action."

"And what can you tell me about the family dynamics within the stories?"

So this is where Woodley was going with these questions, Callen thought before responding. "They're brothers, real close to each other and their family."

"And what do you feel when you read these stories, when you're emotionally invested in these characters."

Callen paused before answering. He knew he was providing Woodley with what wanted to hear, but it was still the beginning of the session - early days yet...

"Like I wanna be in the adventure with them, live their lives..."

"Ah yes, excitement and adventure with the permanent safety net of a stable family life." Woodley scribbled some more notes down. He shuffled through some papers, running his finger down a list, tapping the page when he found what he was looking for.

"I can understand why you enjoy those books so much - many girls and boys do. It provides them with escapism, a safe way to enjoy dangerous adventures, frequently without repercussions. Hmm, it looks like you've already experienced plenty of danger and adventures of your own, but have faced the consequences of your actions. Your social services record and police file require at least an afternoon to review."

Callen remained silent. There really wasn't much he could say, after all it was true.

"Callen, you've admitted you enjoy quick-paced team sports and reading adventure books that have a strong familial theme. Even without asking you anything else or reading more than the summary pages of your records, I can tell that you're a smart kid, and one that's fiercely independent. But deep down you want to belong to a family. You've lived in over thirty different foster houses and children's homes, so plenty of opportunity to find that connection. Why do you think that none were successful?"

Callen forced himself not to shrug. He had no real answer to the question, which was one he had asked himself time and time again.

Woodley closed Callen's file and threw it on the coffee table. He crossed his legs and studied the teenager who sat in front of him.

"Come on now, you must have an opinion?"

Callen slowly looked up and met Woodley's eyes. "It's a bit hard to connect with families that only pretend to give a shit when the social worker visits."

"So you're telling me that all those homes were bad?"

"No," Callen reluctantly admitted. "But a lot of them were."

"If they were all so bad towards you, why did a number of families request that social services remove you from their home and place you elsewhere?"

Callen remained silent and stared out of the window. Some families had wanted him to leave as he was a disruptive force on the other children, or because of his violent behaviour - although most of the violence had been due to him either standing up for himself or for others. In all honesty, he had no idea how some of the families were allowed to foster children in the first place, let alone why someone had seen fit to place him in homes they must have at least suspected were abusive. However, social services also seemed to have moved him whenever they wanted and for no discernible reason.

"It seems that quite a few placements ended due to your aggressive attitude and temper. Is there a trigger for your rage? What makes you angry, Callen?"

You, Callen thought, you make me angry, and the bastard cops who arrested me...And people who are paid to help but only want the money. The education system, law and order and social welfare and everyone in authority. His thoughts wandered to the personal and Callen considered his family. They made him angry - his parents - for hating him so much they abandoned him to any hell hole the Government seemed fit to dump him in.

Woodley observed the brief flash of anger that sparked in Callen's icy blue eyes. There was nothing else in the boy's body language that gave away his emotions, and that fascinated Woodley; Callen was clearly a very interesting child.

"Care to verbalise any of that, Callen?"

Callen visibly started and snapped his eyes from the window to meet Woodley's. This time they narrowed in hatred of the psychologist and he remained silent. If he opened his mouth then all of his anger would pour out and that would leave him open and vulnerable. To protect himself, this time he had to maintain control.

"What about your mom and dad?" Woodley asked. He was met with silence and so rephrased the question slightly. "How do you feel about your parents?"

"I don't know, I've never met them," Callen answered in a steady, even tone.

"But you've clearly met your mother, after all, she's the one that brought you in to this world,"

"Yeah, and then left me alone," Callen replied bitterly, before he could stop himself.

"Indeed," Woodley nodded in serious agreement. "Abandonment, the inability to form long lasting bonds and the anger which comes at the resentment you bear towards your family and yourself. It's painfully obvious that you have a huge amount of rage inside you, and if you don't learn to control it, you'll end up in a lot more trouble than this," Woodley gestured with his right arm to indicate that he meant here, at Southgate.

Callen twisted his fingers which were clasped together in his lap. He could feel his temper rising; his heart was beating faster and his breathing had became shallow. He really didn't like Woodley, but even more worrying, he really did not like himself at the moment. He knew he could play the game and tell the shrinks what they wanted to hear, but Woodley or this place, was getting to him, putting him off his game. But then nothing he had experienced in Southgate could be considered 'a game'.

"There are a number of ways to gain control of your temper, and I want you to attend the group sessions I hold weekly on anger management. It's not easy being a teenage boy with hormones coursing through you, let alone with the situations you and many of the other youths in here have experienced." Woodley paused to smile, attempting to reassure Callen that some of his emotions at least, were common to most teens.

Callen did not smile back and inwardly shuddered. One on one therapy was bad enough. Group therapy was even worse.

"This afternoon I also want to touch on how you perceive yourself. I find it most interesting that your favourite colour is grey. That's a colour associated with a lack of emotion and feelings of isolation. You try stay in control of your emotions, shutting them off to avoid being hurt, like you have been in the past with your parents, foster families and other adults. By distancing yourself from people that might genuinely care, you avoid the risk that they too, might abandon you. In a similar way, you don't really have any friends. Sure, you can relate to your peers and socially interact with them, for example through team sports such as basketball, but you rarely open up to anyone and keep to yourself. Ironically, although grey is a neutral colour for those that don't like to seek attention, it's almost in direct contradiction to your behaviour. Your violent episodes invite attention, although maybe more of an invitation for others to punish you for the guilt you feel. Your lack of ability or maybe lack of desire to engage your brain and mouth again invites attention, frequently leading to trouble. But most interestingly, when you do engage your brain, you have this talent to fabricate some of the most convincing lies I've seen in a while."

Woodley had continued to observe Callen throughout his speech. He noticed how Callen's fingers stopped rubbing against each other as he began to listen to how much of his character could be read through the simple admission of his favourite colour. He knew he had piqued his interest; after all, one of the skills of a successful liar was being able to read situations and people.

"I might only have half your file on the table here, but I have read both sections. You've told some quite outrageous lies about foster families, and you've been caught out - but maybe that was the intention. I will admit there are some instances that indicate you could become quite the con-artist as you grow older. It fascinates me, how you are more than capable of establishing the fundamental emotions of trust and empathy with someone, and then steal from them. Tell me about the charity scam." Woodley threw out the last sentence, gauging Callen's physical and verbal reaction.

"It wasn't a scam," Callen said defensively, his face open and honest.

"Well in that case, just talk me through what happened. I want to hear what happened from you, not from what I read in the police and social services reports."

Callen sighed and dropped his shoulders in resignation, preparing to relive the events from nearly two years ago.

"I was placed with a family called the Smiths who did loads of charity work. They said I should do something good so I went to a local charity store that helps orphaned children. I told them I had no parents and was living in foster care with the Smiths, and that I wanted to help raise money to help other kids like me. They said I was too young so I came back with my foster mom. They talked about the charity and then agreed I could do the collections. In the morning I went up and down the street, knocking on doors, and then I stood in the mall all Saturday afternoon. When I was walking back home some kids pushed me into the alley, beat me and stole the money." Callen stopped and looked at Woodley, trying to work out if he believed him. Woodley's expression was one of professional interest, Callen decided, and he had no idea if Woodley thought he was lying. "I went home with no money, a split lip and a black eye and they called the police. Said I'd stolen the money and hit myself. Why would I do that?"

Callen shook his head slightly as he asked Woodley the question, almost daring him to answer.

"Why indeed," Woodley commented. He would park that one until later. The police report had been unable to prove that Callen had stolen the money and the relationship between Callen and the foster family had deteriorated within days, and he had been returned to the group home. Despite the honesty and simplicity of Callen's story, Woodley was not convinced of his innocence.

"I did find it quite amusing that when you were seven, you were in trouble at school for scamming another child by asking him to give you ten dollars each week, so you would give him fifty back five weeks later. And you repeated that for two months before you were caught. The parents of the other child even called the police to the school." Woodley smiled as he summarised the story for Callen.

Well, Callen thought, he had pretty much dared Woodley to respond to his charity story and he had, with an event that basically confirmed he thought he was guilty. Callen now despised Woodley even more. He had no idea that he could be read so easily. Sure he had scammed some rich brat in second grade, although at the time, he had no idea he was doing anything wrong. He had also deliberately taken the charity money, splitting the proceeds with the boy he paid to hit him. The Smith's did not embody the ethos that charity starts at home. So apart from offering him a roof over his head, he had been pretty much neglected and figured he had deserved the charity money. After all, he was an orphan, he'd been neglected and abused - the charity had even admitted they kept twenty percent for administrative costs. The police investigation had found no evidence of Callen's guilt, it was all circumstantial and no charges were ever laid. Woodley had just established, without actually saying as much, that Callen was a liar and a thief.

"Why did you lie to the director?"

Woodley's words cut through his thoughts and brought Callen back to reality. Without knowing to which lies he was referring, Callen thought it best to remain silent.

"Callen?"

"What?"

"Why did you lie to the director?"

How he phrased his answer would be crucial. Callen had no idea whose side Woodley was on. He clearly spent a lot of time at Southgate, but none of his questions or insights seemed to indicate that he was in cahoots with the Correction Officers. Callen might not like Woodley, but he did appear sincere and seemed to be working with Lorna Williams, his social worker. He could not be one hundred percent sure though, and that put him in a dangerous predicament.

"I lied because I was real angry at everyone here. I hated being in isolation and I never started the fight at the pool table," Callen wove a few truths in with his lies. "And Jessop kept showing me up in front of everyone."

"Why did you think your lies would be believed?"

Callen refrained from rolling his eyes. Christ, he thought, surely everyone knew this place was a hell hole. He'd been hearing horror stories about Southgate for years.

"There've always been rumours about this place," he answered. "On the street and in the group homes, they're used to scare kids so I thought I'd turn it to my advantage."

"Any other reasons why your lies about abuse here would be believed?" Woodley asked, catching Callen's eye.

Callen broke eye contact and studied his fingers, wondering why he should make Woodley's job easy. Woodley already knew the answers so why was he even bothering to ask the questions. Silence ensued for several minutes and Callen was determined not to be the first to break.

"How about the lies you told eighteen months ago about the Sampson's?"

Callen remained silent.

"Callen, you persuaded your social worker at the time that the Sampson's were physically abusing you. You went to hospital with a broken arm and bruises on your upper body. It was only after one of the girls at your school came forward to say she saw you fighting after school, that you were caught lying. And your reasoning was?"

"I didn't like the family or the school and social services refused to move me. They never listen."

"Well they listened this time and called the police. Mr Sampson was arrested for child abuse and even though the charges were dropped, he almost lost his job."

Good, thought Callen. He might not have been abused there but the man had been an idiot. The local school had been worse; Callen was already behind the rest of his year and had been placed in a special group for those requiring learning assistance. The class consisted mainly of children with special needs and behavioural difficulties, and that had led to Mr Sampson treating Callen as though he were retarded. He had no support and nowhere to turn. He could have run but he had already been warned that if he was caught again, he would be detained by the police and sent to juvenile halls, so he complained to his social worker and remained with the family.

An older school boy had picked a fight with him after school later that week, accusing him of being a poor, inbred, trailer-trash orphan, unwanted due to his stupidity. Callen had seen red, thrown the first punch, and then lost the fight badly when he fallen awkwardly from a vicious punch to his face. It had left him with a rather painful broken arm, so he had made his way to the local ER alone. Apart from providing them with his name, Callen had naturally turned mute when the doctors asked how he had sustained his injuries. His medical records and a call to social services, confirmed he was a ward of the state, a vulnerable child and had previously been admitted for instances of abuse. Before he could even make up the lies, the medical staff had put two and two together and made five.

"The doctors that started the lies," Callen half-heartedly defended himself.

"But you let them run away with that. At what point did you realise it was wrong?"

Callen thought for a few moments. Even now, he didn't really think he had done anything wrong. After all, he did not start the lies, and no one was really hurt. He was removed from the Sampson's for good and his broken arm had mended - and the Sampson's got rid of their problem child. It was what he would call a win for everyone.

"A lie by omission is still a lie, Callen." Woodley said.

"What?"

"By failing to correct the doctor's story, you lied. By making a few carefully selected comments you encouraged everyone to believe your foster father had attacked you. So you can see why we knew you lied about the abuse here. Your lies are another way that you draw attention to yourself in a very negative manner. Maybe you should consider a change of direction and become the class clown instead. You might find you make friends that way, rather than pushing people away."

"I'll remember that next time I lie to myself about who I really am," Callen responded. He'd already tried that personality change and had quickly realised it required too much effort and brought him too much attention. But it had been a useful exercise, and good to know he could pull it off if required. At the end of the day though, it was not who he was.

"Callen, how you behave and the decisions you make, affect who you are now and who will become in the future. Only _you_ have the power to change yourself. I can only help point you in the right direction. Anger management is a great start, and when you feel yourself getting angry, try to remove yourself from the situation or think of something that makes you calm..."

Callen was already able to transport himself to his calm place, it helped him block out bad memories. He had just never used the technique to defuse his temper - he preferred fight to flight, unless the situation warranted it. He wondered what Woodley would say if he admitted he fantasised about being stranded in splendid isolation on a desert island, with nothing but the sound of waves crashing on the shore to keep him company. That fantasy was a pipe dream and he knew it. The closest he would ever get would be sleeping on the beach or under a pier. He instead pondered his latest fantasy, one that had permeated his dreams for the past few nights - razing Southgate to the ground. There was no psychoanalysis involved in deciphering that, Callen thought. He wanted to destroy this place and all the evil it contained. He considered why he said his favourite colour was grey and realised it was because he thought it embodied being nondescript and therefore safe. How wrong was he on that one. His second favourite colour was black, and he was glad he didn't admit that!

"Can I go now?" He asked Woodley, hoping desperately that his session would be cut short.

"Yes Callen," Woodley replied. "I hope you've found this useful. I look forward to our chat next week, when we'll talk about identity and the self."

"What? You mean self identity?" Callen never understood why shrinks did not just say what they meant.

"Something like that," Woodley smiled, in a last attempt to reassure Callen he was not the enemy, despite the accusations made during his speeches throughout the latter part of the session.

Callen stood and opened the door. Woodley was right about everything. He was a thief, a liar, a con artist and full of rage. It wasn't circumstance that led him to Southgate, he managed that all by himself. Callen suddenly felt exhausted. His night time visit from Wells and Pollack and now the mind games with his shrink were wearing him down at a time when he needed to remain strong.

"And don't forget your anger management session, first one is tomorrow afternoon," Woodley called after him.

* * *

Thank you all for continuing to accompany Callen on his journey through Southgate. This chapter is a very last minute addition as I had never actually planned to write the therapy session. A review from Janice made me think that such a chapter would actually provide further insight in to my favourite character, and so a week later - here we are (so forgive all the typos!). A further two more to go, and I plan to post ch 9 mid next week and the final ch next weekend.

Please carry on reviewing as I'm finding all the comments very interesting and extremely encouraging. Clearly I am doing something right! And as some have pointed out, this is not really an easy read. It may have been easy to write (as in quick etc.), but the content has been rather difficult!


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Callen's therapy session left him feeling emotionally drained and dejected and he had wandered outside, ignoring the calls of Joe who was ruling the pool table. He sat down on the grass, back against the brick wall that separated him from freedom. If he turned to his left he had a view through the metal fence of the grass on the outside. No matter what anyone said, the grass did look greener on the other side. He stared longingly at the sight, wishing he knew how he could escape. Raised voices brought him back to reality and he looked across the basketball court to see that Pollack had been woken from his doze in the sunshine. It looked as though someone had thrown the ball at him. Callen figured that was a pretty brave move and he hoped whoever was responsible had hurt Pollack and would not get caught. The boys were all animated in defence of their innocence, raising their arms and gesturing wildly. Callen stopped watching after a few minutes, as Pollack seemed to have focused on one boy, a tall seventeen year old, and was pushing him back indoors to face his punishment.

Callen closed his eyes and let the warm sun wash over him, feeling the calming pull of sleep that Jessop had denied him earlier that day in class. If he could bottle this moment then he could easily survive Southgate. But life was never that easy or that simple, at least not for him and minutes later, a shadow crossed his face and he opened his eyes. Matty B stood over him. Callen wondered what the hell he wanted. Matt and his gang had pretty much left him alone since he'd come out of isolation, probably because they knew the officers were making his life a misery. Either that or they were biding their time, however Callen doubted they had that much intelligence.

"You got something of mine," Matt said accusingly.

"Like fuck I do," Callen replied, instantly on edge, his previous exhaustion forgotten. He had always figured the aggressive approach was the only way to deal with bullies, which was probably one reason why he was involved in so many fights.

"You retarded or something? That pack of smokes," Matt enlightened him. "I want you to get them now."

"No," Callen had no idea why, after a few weeks, Matt now wanted the cigarettes to which he had no claim, after all Callen had laid down the bet and won fairly.

"What d'ya mean?" Matt took a step closer.

Callen quickly scrambled to his feet, keen to avoid the first kick that would soon head his way if he remained on the ground. "I mean I won that pool game and then you screwed me over." Callen prodded Matt in the chest, keen to make sure Matt was reminded that he was no easy mark. "They're mine."

"That's not how it works," Matt retaliated by pushing Callen against the wall. He took a step closer, his height giving him the advantage over the shorter and younger youth. "You don't smoke so I reckon you still got 'em. Give 'em to me."

Callen looked past Matt and saw that Pollack was back outside again, this time scanning the perimeter for groups of teens he could harass. There was now a very real risk that Pollack would see the exchange between the two boys and decide to make an example out of him again.

"No," Despite the COs presence, Callen decided he'd had enough of Matt and shoved him back, deftly moving to his left so he could no longer be backed up against the wall. He could now easily step out of Matt's reach should he decide to throw a punch.

Matt stumbled slightly and then rocked forward, grabbing Callen's arm to prevent him from walking away. The motion caused Callen to turn towards him. "We're going back to your cell and you're gonna get them for me, or you'll get what Southerby got."

"Bullshit" Callen replied, shaking off Matt's arm and moving a step closer to him. "You didn't kill Jake, he killed himself."

"Maybe, but I can still make you bleed to death," Matt held his ground and smiled a sickly sweet smile that revealed his crooked teeth. "Now, you're gonna get those cigarettes and then I want you to get me another pack tomorrow. You're gonna be my supplier."

Callen looked at Matt in amazement. "Get lost. Even if I was gonna do what you said, if I lift them too often the COs'll get suspicious."

"Does it look like I give a fuck? It's not my problem, asshole."

It was now Callen's turn to shake his head. If life wasn't tough enough, Matt was now trying to make it impossible. He might as well just knock on Director McKenzie's door and ask if he could serve the rest of his time at Southgate in solitary, just to get it over with. No matter how good a pick pocket he was, he would get caught in here...unless...he could steal the cigarettes and plant them on someone else straight away. That would work, he thought, hating the way he sometimes actually enjoyed solving ridiculously difficult problems. Callen then realised that he should actually start working on the greatest problem of all, escaping this dump.

"Fine," he gave in. It was sometimes just easier to at least give the impression that the other guy was in control. He would let Matt have that one pack and then set him up with the next. "You stay here and I'll get 'em. Bring them out in five."

Matt let him go and Callen walked a few paces, scanning the outside area for any signs of Pollack. He spotted him again leaving his post and approaching the entrance to the recreation room, at which point Callen instinctively spun around and leapt towards Matt. He clenched his fist and swung his right arm to land a vicious punch to Matt's right cheek, quickly followed with a knee to the groin. With Matt doubled up in pain, Callen kicked him to the floor and placed a foot on his chest, pressing down hard.

"Listen asshole," Callen leaned over him. "You'll get that one pack from me and then you're gonna leave me the fuck alone. If you or your gang come near me again, I'm gonna make you wish you'd never met me, understand? Understand?"

Matt snivelled in agreement, and Callen gave him a swift kick before walking away with a smug smile, wondering what Woodley would have made of that encounter. Idiot shrink, he thought with a shake of his head, sometimes violence was the only answer. Callen was thankful that Matt's gang were elsewhere that afternoon, but he figured Matt would once again seek his revenge, this time with backup. But if he did, he would be ready. Callen had seriously had enough of being told what to do and if Matt wanted a war, well he could have one.

Back in his cell, Callen dug his hand into the side of his mattress and pulled out the pack of cigarettes. It was currently the only item he had stashed and he was grateful the COs had not seen fit to search his cell since he'd been incarcerated. Callen shoved them in his pocket and then placed his hands in both front pockets to mask the shape and sauntered outside, scanning the area for Matt. He was no longer on the floor but had made it to the benches by the basketball court, where he was gingerly touching his face and leaning over in pain. Callen allowed himself a smile of satisfaction and he casually glanced around for Pollack; he had returned outside and was once again focused on the game of basketball and the passionate shouts that emanated from the twenty or so youths that were still playing. Instead of walking over to Matt, Callen headed back to the same spot he had occupied earlier. He sat down again and waited to be approached; there was no way he was going to make anything easy for him. Once again he leaned back and closed his eyes, day-dreaming of ways to permanently ensure Matt and his gang left him alone.

Callen waited about ten minutes before the sun disappeared, however when he opened his eyes this time, he found Pollack casting a shadow over him. "Stand up," he ordered.

Callen rolled his eyes and sighed, figuring he'd better obey. He took his hands out of his pockets and withdrew the cigarettes, palming them. He placed his hands just under the top of his thighs, slipped the pack beneath him as he pushed himself up, quickly moving his feet to stand on the pack. He had no idea if Matt had managed to squeal to Pollack, or if it was always his plan to set him up or if this was just another move by the COs to persecute him. Out of the three options, Callen was leaning towards the middle one.

"Turn around, place your hands against the wall and spread your legs," Pollack did not give any reason for wanting to search Callen.

"Why?" Callen stalled, trying to see past Pollack. He had not been searched at Southgate before, and he could only think that Pollack wanted to do it now because he had been given a reason; Matt and his gang.

"I think you've got cigarettes on you and they're banned,"

Callen stared at Pollack. "Bullshit, everyone smokes and you just ignore them,"

"Just enforcing policy asshole, now turn around."

"I'm clean," Callen answered, still stalling and refusing to obey Pollack.

Pollack took a step towards Callen, his face flushing red with anger and the frustration that he had still not broken this kid.

"What is it with you? Do you enjoy getting hurt? Now turn around before I make you."

Callen remained facing Pollack. The stand-off lasted seconds until Pollack decided he'd had enough. He took hold of Callen's arm and twisted it behind his back, forcing him to turn and face the wall. Callen grimaced, twisting and shuffling his foot forward, praying the cigarette pack would stay hidden beneath the sole of his plimsoll. Pollack shoved Callen against the wall, taking hold of the back of his head so he could push his face in to the bricks. Callen struggled, nearly wrenching his arm from its socket and scraping his face against the wall, while Pollack kicked Callen's legs apart.

"Stand still or I'll get Wells to help me. I think he's taken a liking to you and I'm sure he'd enjoy patting you down more than me..."

"Fucking pervert," Callen muttered as he stopped struggling, knowing that Pollack understood exactly who and what terrified him. Pollack systematically and thoroughly patted Callen down. Two hands ran down each arm with close attention paid to the cuffs of his sweater. His chest and back were cleared with Pollack making sure nothing was hidden in the waist band of his trousers. Two hands were run down each of his legs – his ankles and sock line were also found to be free of contraband.

"Am I good?" Callen asked, turning around. He was sweating with nerves and adrenaline but knew he was not safe until Pollack left. "I told you I was clean. Maybe you should go and search Matty B's cell and then search him, or are you just his bitch, doing whatever he tells you?"

"I thought we warned you to keep your mouth shut. Y'know, next time it'll be a cavity search performed by Wells, and I just know he'll be real thorough." Pollack smiled grimly. "And then you'll be the bitch, screaming for mercy."

"It'll never happen," Callen replied, quickly thinking that if he continued to antagonise Pollack, it could be his chance to obtain evidence of abuse at Southgate. "But I reckon you COs know all about that, I bet you bend over real well for Director McKenzie."

Pollack's breathing increased as he listened to Callen's words, and without warning, he punched Callen hard in the side, causing him to double over. Pollack opened his fingers, stretching them before he balled them tight, preparing for his next move. Callen took advantage of the slight delay in Pollack's attack. Holding his breath, he channelled all his strength into a football tackle, charging directly at Pollack's chest; a move he knew would leave no marks and have little effect, except to rile the CO further. Pollack staggered slightly and Callen took a step back, deliberately taking his time to prepare to follow through with a right handed uppercut. By the time Callen swung, Pollack was already blocking the attack, and he countered with two quick punches to Callen's stomach, causing the fifteen year old to fall to the floor. A swift kick finished Callen off and he curled up to protect himself, gasping for breaths that were almost too painful for him to take.

"You're a stupid fucker," Pollack spat. "And a worthless piece of crap. You must really hate your life to have done that to me."

Pollack left him lying there and walked away, calling for Matt. Callen remained still, his knees pulled in to his chest, wheezing as he struggled to get enough breath in to his lungs. He squeezed his eyes tight in an attempt force the pain to die away and tried to focus on revenge. Callen hoped Matt was about to get his second beating of the afternoon, this time by Pollack. It was about time he got a dose of his own medicine. Callen knew Matt had set him up just now, and for that, he would make him pay. Wil Emmerson was dealing drugs in direct competition to Matt, and Callen knew he could persuade Emmerson to help set up his rival for an almighty fall, or even put him out of business entirely. And if Emmerson wasn't willing, Callen would get the drugs from one of the other youths he knew dealt. Revenge would be so sweet and the bastard would not know what had hit him. He would start lifting personal items and weapons from other inmates and officers, planting them in Matt's cell. He would align himself with the various gangs at Southgate and drop very subtle hints and lies that would cause Matt to get a beating, from other kids and the officers. Oh yes, Callen thought, revenge would be so sweet and so easy. And as for Pollack, Callen would speak with Woodley and his social worker, showing them his bruises - hidden on his torso - and also tell them about the threats made of sexual abuse. They'd all started the war, and he was going to win each battle along the way until he was victorious.

Having channelled some of his pain into thoughts of revenge, Callen raised his head slightly to orientate himself. He had fallen close to the join between the brick wall and the metal fence. Holding his breath to try and stifle the pain, Callen shuffled a few inches towards the join and tested how tightly the fence was attached to the bricks and how deep the foundations were. The side of the fence was secured to the bricks but the foundations were non-existent.

Pollack had punched him hard and breathing was still not easy. Damn, he thought, how was he going to muster enough strength to pull the fence away? He had no answer to his own question but he suddenly realised this could be his one and only chance of escape. Callen listened to the background noise. He could no longer hear Pollack shouting for Matt but there seemed to be an increasing amount of noise from the basketball court. It seemed that the passionate game from earlier was becoming heated. Maybe lady luck was finally on his side.

Callen grimaced slightly as he changed position and realised he had fallen on top of his cigarette pack, which had remained hidden from Pollack. Callen took that as another sign that his luck was in and he placed the pack in his pocket, taking a deep breath. The pain was easing somewhat and Callen managed to brace his legs against the brick wall and tug at the fence. He repeated the action several times until the fastening popped out and the bottom of the fence curled up slightly. He assessed the size of the gap. He may be small but not even he could squeeze through that space. Moving his hands higher he again pulled at the fence. The next clip came away with ease and Callen glanced back quickly to see if he was being watched. He did not linger too long on the scenes behind him but managed to observe a crowd on the basket ball court, focused on their game and making a lot of noise.

Lifting the corner of the fence, Callen crawled underneath and within seconds he was on the other side. He made a half hearted attempt to pull the fence back down, and he partially succeeded until the lure of freedom overwhelmed him. He rolled behind the wall and satisfied he was through, he stood upright, wincing with the effort. He stretched gingerly, willing the last of the pain to disappear and he walked quickly along the edge of the wall. When he reached the corner he peaked round and saw the car park. Visiting hours had started and there were a number of cars neatly parked between dull painted lines on the asphalt. The safest and easiest way for him to escape was to drive out and then he could just follow the open road until he reached some town, somewhere no one knew him and he could start again.

Callen put his daydreams to the back of his mind. He was still a stone's throw from his place of incarceration and a long way from safety. He crept into the car park, using the sides of cars as cover. He had nothing to help him break in to a car and no time to try and find something suitable. Instead he had to rely on someone leaving their car unlocked, and anyone who trusted that all the criminals were on the inside deserved to have their car stolen. Callen tried the doors of several cars until he got lucky on his third attempt with a light brown station wagon. He opened the driver's door and slipped inside. Keeping low, he moved his hands to the area beneath the steering column, feeling for the wires that would enable him to hotwire the car. Seconds later he had pulled and twisted the wires together and the engine roared in to life. He sat back on the seat and shifted it forward so he could comfortably reach the peddles. Glancing around, Callen put the car in drive and calmly exited Southgate.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Callen drove down several side roads. He had no real clue where exactly Southgate was in LA or where the roads he took led. Callen's view of 'life beyond the fence', had indicated that Southgate had a rural location, but he had barely driven more than a few minutes before he entered an industrial area. If Callen had been thinking clearly, he would have ditched the car and stolen another, but he was desperate and his only thoughts were to keep driving as far away as possible from the detention centre. He wondered how long it would be before anyone noticed he was missing. He knew that Pollack would not be worried that he'd been left on the ground by the fence, especially if his next task was to give Matt an earful or even a beating. It was more likely that once Pollack had finished with Matt, that he and his gang would come looking for him. By Callen's calculations, that meant he had maybe twenty minutes until the alarm was raised.

First they would search the interior and exterior of the centre, and when the Correction Officers realised he was not doing a Jake and bleeding out over the shower room floor, they would alert the police, usher out the visitors and lock down the centre. That meant there was probably another ten minutes until they realised he'd stolen a car, which made it thirty minutes in total. Callen looked at the clock on the car dash; he had already been driving for just over five. He pressed his foot down on the gas and accelerated up the ramp on to a main road. The tail of the car swung out slightly as he struggled to control the large vehicle and manoeuvre safely in to the heavy LA traffic, which was flowing at a slow but steady pace. Callen slammed his palm on the steering wheel in frustration and swore. The longer he was caught in traffic, the more likely he was to get attract attention and get caught. The slow pace gradually became a stop-start pattern, with more stopping than starting. Ten minutes later and Callen's leg began to ache from the constant moving of his foot between the brake and accelerator pedals. As the car once again became stationary, he removed his hands from the steering wheel and stretched them out, grimacing as a sharp pain stabbed at his chest. He swore again, cursing Pollack and his hard punches.

Slowly, Callen approached a major intersection and finally the traffic seemed to ease. He glanced up at the signs. He had no idea which route to take but he knew the 101 headed up the coast to San Francisco, which meant he could stop at San Jose or any of the small towns along the way, maybe earning a few bucks from odd job work. He could graft with the best of them if he had to, he was sure of that - he had just never wanted to before. Maybe he would even head up as far as Canada. He'd never been to another country and Canada sounded safe. Decision made, Callen turned on to the 101 and the traffic continued to ease, allowing Callen to accelerate once more. The needle on the speedometer was vibrating around the 60 mph mark, and the faster Callen drove, the more he had to fight the steering. The station wagon was a heavy vehicle and despite his need and desire to drive fast, he figured he'd better slow a little in case he crashed. The needle on the fuel gauge also caught his eye. He was convinced when he started, it was hovering around half a tank but now it was floating just above the red. Callen started to feel his luck ebbing away. Running out of gas would be bad, very bad indeed. It meant dreams of Canada would have to wait, and maybe even dreams of San Jose, he thought, coming across a sign for West Hollywood. But on the other hand, maybe his luck was just about holding out.

West Hollywood was where thousands of Russians had migrated in the late 1970s when the Soviet Union had been dissolved, and it was where the Rostoff family had settled. They had lived in America for five years when they decided to give something back to their adoptive country and become foster parents. Seeing the sign for West Hollywood brought the Rostoff's again to the forefront of Callen's mind and he suddenly thought he could turn to them for help. Seconds later he scrapped that idea. He couldn't put them at risk. They might be arrested and sent back to Russia. Worse still, Alina would be taken away from her mom and dad and placed in care, an experience he would not wish to inflict on any other child. He wondered if he could just hide in the garden for one night before stealing another car, one that was faster and full of gas. He would at least feel safe in a familiar environment, but again, maybe that still wasn't the wisest plan. Maybe he would just ditch the car and head towards Venice. He knew people there who would shelter him until it was safe to venture up north.

In his confusion, Callen took the first turn signed for West Hollywood and within minutes was driving along Santa Monica Boulevard. He might have lived in the area for three months, but now all the modest single and double storey houses lining the streets looked the same. Hauling on the steering wheel, Callen swerved the car again as he took another left turn. A siren wailed suddenly and Callen glanced up at his rear view mirror. It was a standard patrol car and he could see the officer talking on his radio. His heart sank as he thought that even if the officer didn't yet realise he was an escaped convict, he would soon find out the car had been reported stolen, and then the identity of the suspected thief. Both luck and time were running out, Callen could just feel it. He had no idea how long the police vehicle had been behind him - glancing in the rear view mirror was not something he did regularly. He pressed his foot on the gas but the station wagon was slow to respond. With both hands gripping the wheel, Callen willed the car to go faster, to sprout wings and fly, anything to avoid getting caught and sent back to Southgate. His eyes flitted between the street ahead and the rear view mirror, and as he squinted ahead of him into the sunlight, he saw two patrol cars position themselves across the street to form a road block.

His heart started beating faster and Callen glanced around him desperately. There was nowhere for him to turn; no side roads and not enough room or time for him to turn the large car around. He took a deep breath and continued driving. Maybe if he drove faster the police would see he wasn't going to stop and move the cars. It was a long shot but the only chance he now had at freedom. If the cars were not moved at the last minute he would just have to ram through them. But the cops remained in the way. Callen's breathing became faster as adrenaline pumped through his veins. Do or die, he thought. Do or die. Move or die. Fighting and surviving were the only options and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel even tighter and drove towards the cars and the officers without slowing.

The two police officers standing in front of their vehicles waved their arms wildly at Callen to bring the car to a halt. An APB had alerted them to the escaped juvenile prisoner and the stolen car. The car had been spotted turning on to the 101 and the LAPD control centre had alerted all patrols in the areas of Hollywood, with specific focus on West Hollywood, and Venice, as they were areas frequented by the suspect, G Callen and where he had been arrested several times previously. They had been advised he was of no danger and so believed tactically that a road block would slow down and stop the youth. However with less hundred metres to go, the two officers started shouting at each other, realising the fifteen year old was not going to stop.

Callen held the steering wheel tight, his foot steady on the gas, pressing down ever so slightly as he drove at the cops and their LAPD cruisers. He prayed they would all disappear and his wishes were somewhat answered as the officers swiftly moved aside from the fast approaching car. The police vehicles remained in situ and a crash was now unavoidable. Callen clipped the bonnet of the left police car and struggled to remain in control of the station wagon. The already heavy steering became impossible to control and Callen wrenched the steering wheel in vain, coming to an abrupt halt as he crashed in to a lamp post, denting the front fender and lifting the bonnet slightly. Without hesitation, Callen pulled the handle and pushed the door open. The moment his feet hit the pavement he glanced back at the officers and started running, desperate to escape. He knew they were already on top of him from the moment he exited the car and he could hear their footsteps pounding as they closed in. Callen forced himself to run faster. He could not get caught; he would not allow himself to be caught, he had done too much this time. There was no turning back. If he was caught, then it would be the end of everything. In less than half a dozen paces, a hand grasped the back of his sweater, forcing Callen to fall face down to the ground. The same hand moved up towards his neck, holding him in place whilst his arms were twisted behind his back and cuffed. Callen tried to struggle but he was held firm. This was it, this is the end of everything, he thought. And a part of him wished the crash had caused him more damage.

"G. Callen, you're under arrest," the officer said gruffly. "For escaping from Southgate Detention Centre, stealing a car, driving without a licence, resisting arrest and attempting to assault two police officers with a deadly weapon."

"And anything else I can Goddamn think of," the second officer said, and the two roughly lifted Callen off the pavement by his arms until he was standing and pushed him back towards the squad car. Callen stumbled slightly and slowed his footsteps, head towards the floor, causing the officers to push him to walk faster.

"You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney but hey I'm sure social services have a free one you can use…"

"Maybe we should charge him with attempted murder, not assault?" The second officer suggested.

"Yeah, the judge might want to go down that route. You're gonna be spending a long time behind bars, and not at some soft detention centre for kids."

Callen twisted his shoulders, attempting to shake off the firm grip of the officers. "You can't," he argued, raising his voice in frustration. "I didn't do anything, not murder, no way."

"Stay still," the first officer ordered, gently pushing Callen face first against the squad car. "You're a danger to society and to yourself. What you just did is not the act of a child. I'm gonna recommend they try you as an adult. Get you sent to an adult prison where you belong."

Callen turned again. "You can't do that," he protested. He stared at them coldly. "Stupid bastards, d'ya have to pass some test to prove you're dumb enough to be a cop?"

"Shut your mouth," the officer said, this time forcefully shoving him against the car. "You're the dumb-ass one for pulling this stunt. You need to learn some respect for authority and the law."

"And you're gonna be the one to teach me that, with everyone watching? Well go on then." Callen spat his words out defiantly. He was hurting and dared the officers to inflict as much pain on him as he thought he deserved.

"What?" the officer replied, shaking his head. "You need to be behind bars where you belong, before you kill someone. Learn the difference between right and wrong. Get therapy too. Now keep quiet!"

Callen decided to obey, and stood facing the roof of the police car. He knew his life was over. He had no hope of evading any of the charges being laid against him. If the police were right and the judge agreed to try him as an adult for attempted murder, he knew he would be spending the rest of his life behind bars. Best case he would be shipped off to a high security juvenile centre, the type which housed the most violent and disturbed teenagers who committed murder and other heinous crimes. But worst case, he, a fifteen year old, would be sent to an adult prison.

The officer's police radio started to chatter and Callen was left standing by the police car for the entire neighbourhood to see. His partner stood guard whilst the arresting officer moved elsewhere for a little more privacy. Callen heard a raised voice but tried to ignore it. He could not make out any words and he figured they were just arguing about where he should be held before trial. He just hoped he wouldn't be sent back to Southgate.

"We've gotta wait here, some official is showing up to see you. Looks like you're in more shit than you thought, kid."

Callen shifted his weight from foot to foot, and wondered how that was possible, and who the hell wanted to see him. He assumed it must be the Director of Social Services or even of the Director of Southgate, probably just wanting proof that he'd actually been arrested and to tell him how they had expected little else from him. The sound of a smooth car engine caught his attention and he turned his head to see who it was, only for the officer to yet again push him back.

Several minutes later, after a muted conversation between his visitor and the leading police officer, which took place out of ear shot, Callen's handcuffs were unlocked. He instinctively rubbed his wrists and stood still, narrowing his eyes and cocking his head slightly, trying to fathom what was going on. The officer moved to the pavement. Callen realised he was expected to follow, but he hesitated. The officer beckoned him and Callen reluctantly followed, uncertain as to what was happening. He'd been in trouble on many occasions but this was not right. However much he would argue against it, he deliberately drove a car at two police officers - a stolen car, driven with no licence. And he was an escaped felon, albeit a juvenile, so why the hell had they removed the cuffs?

"That lady over there has authorised that all charges against you be dropped. Do you know what that means?"

Callen shook his head.

"It means you've been given a final chance, Callen. God only knows why. Do you have any idea how serious your offences are?

Callen looked at the ground and stayed silent. He understood exactly how serious his crimes were.

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you,"

Callen lifted his head and stared at the officer.

"You have a criminal record Callen, and you were sent to Southgate as punishment for your crimes. You're fifteen and juvie should have shown you how you _do not_ want to spend the rest of your life. But you escaped, stole a car and deliberately used that car as a deadly weapon. And you did that with me and my partner standing in front of the cruisers. You had intent Callen, premeditated intent to deliberately cause serious damage to us and the cruisers. You should be going back to prison - an adult prison - for attempted murder."

Callen lowered his gaze again. "Sorry," he muttered, knowing the word meant little and wouldn't be worth anything as an apology.

"This lady is taking full responsibility for you, so I'd better not hear that you've been involved in any other crimes or see that there's a warrant out for your arrest again. I don't even want to see your name on the runaways report. If I do, I'll make sure the full force of the law is brought down on you, and all these charges that have been waived today will be valid again. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Callen muttered, but the words barely registered. Who the hell had the power to undermine the police and cancel his arrest warrant? The officer took Callen by the arm and escorted him to his visitor; a very, very short lady, dressed in black trousers and a black leather jacket.

"I don't know who you are or what strings you pulled but this kid just crashed through two LAPD cruisers. That is an assault on an officer with a deadly weapon. He should be tried as an adult." Callen bowed his head, knowing full well the gravity of the words the officer spoke were a last chance for the lady to change her mind and send him to prison.

"You're objections are noted," the lady answered in an equally serious voice.

The officer looked at the woman and then glared at Callen, who glanced up. He shook his head slightly and walked off.

Callen stared at the woman, unsure what was supposed to happen next. She stared back.

"What?" he asked rudely.

"Very impressive Mr Callen," she said with a look of amusement.

Callen continued to stare at her, unsure what exactly was amusing about this situation, or indeed, what was impressive.

"Very impressive indeed,"

It almost sounded like she approved of his actions. Callen looked down at his feet. Something was not right. Why was she here? What power did she have to apparently make his latest criminal activities disappear? What was he supposed to say to her?

"You're really short," he looked up, his blue eyes boring in to her face.

The woman laughed, shaking her head at Callen's words. The boy clearly had no idea what to say but at least was not afraid to speak plainly.

"Are you taking me back to social services?" He asked, knowing disappointment was just a stone's throw away. It always was.

The woman's demeanour turned serious. "No," she shook her head to lend her words more weight. "You're never going there again."

Callen didn't understand. It sounded as if she knew how bad his time in social services had been. If he wasn't going to prison and he wasn't going back to social services, then where was he being sent?

"You can stay with me, for as long as you like," she gave an open hand gesture as though it would really be his choice as to how long he stayed.

Callen remained silent. A plethora of questions were running through his mind. Why would she want him to stay with her but not bind him to actually staying? Could he really leave whenever he wanted? What if he left that evening? What was the catch? If she was some freak, Callen thought, he hoped he really could leave whenever he wanted. He still didn't understand what was going on and he still had no idea who she was.

"I've been watching you, for quite a while." She took a several steps towards Callen. "You have great potential. And I have a plan for you, Mr Callen."

Callen resisted the natural urge to step back and regain his own personal space. This woman intrigued him, in fact she was quite mesmerising and her presence was almost calming. She said that he had potential and she had a plan for him. No one had ever said that about him before. The only future anyone had ever predicted, had been one of crime and prison. The only question had been whether the crimes would be petty or major.

"Come, I have new clothes and a hot dinner waiting for you at home,"

Henrietta Lange gestured towards her car. Callen stayed rooted to the spot. The police vehicles had now left the scene and if he wanted, he could run. She would never be able to catch him. But if he ran she might change her mind and let the police re-arrest him. His eyes darted between the car and her. There was something…magnetic...about her and Callen felt compelled to accept her invitation. He gave a slight nod and walked to the car.

Hetty smiled at the nervousness and clear hesitation displayed by her latest recruit. After three months of searching, she had finally found Callen again, albeit in a juvenile detention centre which, all things considered, did not surprise her. She had hastily intervened after being alerted of his escape and subsequent arrest, and Hetty realised that if she did not seize this opportunity now, then Callen would be lost to her, too far emerged in his life of crime and punishment to be a suitable candidate for rehabilitation and training.

She knew the first step for Callen though, was to believe that her offer was better than either prison or social services. Not a difficult choice for the child, Hetty thought, observing him clamber in to the car. The challenges though would be many, starting with persuading him to stay long term. She knew many other challenges would follow; initially trust in her, respect - first for himself and then others, channelling his anger and persuading him that an education was crucial for life's journey, particularly the journey she had already mapped out for Callen. And if Callen responded well and embraced her methods of mentoring, she would eventually mould him in to a first rate spy. Hetty smiled to herself and followed Callen to the car, joining him in the back.

"Take us home," she instructed the driver. "San Fernando Valley." Hetty hoped the choice of property would be a suitable distance from Callen's previous haunts and not prove too affluent as to influence his decision of whether to stay. Henrietta Lange was under no illusions; the next few weeks and months, would be very challenging for the both of them.

* * *

Well, Callen has finally escaped his three weeks of hell! Thank you very much for sticking with this story, it' been quite a ride. Every single review, follow, favourite and comment is so much appreciated. Just after that final review now - of this chapter and the story as a whole. Thank you all again :)


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